This Lullaby
by YourFavourite
Summary: Draco never stays with one person for too long. But what happens when he meets Harry? [This Lullaby HP Style]
1. Chapter 1

_**D**__**isclaimer: I didn't originally write this. It's based on a book "This lullaby" by Sarah Dessen. **_

_**Reviews plz.**_

**Chapter 1**

The name of this song is "This Lullaby." At this point, I've probably heard it, oh, about a million times. Approximately.

All my life I've been told about how my father wrote it the day I was born. He was on the road somewhere in Texas, already split from my mom. The story goes that he got word of my birth, sat down with his guitar, and just came up with it, right there in a room at Motel 6. An hour of his time, just a few chords, two verses and a chorus. He'd been writing music all his life, but in the end it would be the only song he was known for. Even in death, my father was a one-hit wonder. Or two, I guess, if you count me.

Now the song was playing overhead as I sat in a plastic chair at a car dealership, in the first week of June. It was warm, everything was blooming, and summer was practically here. Which meant, of course, that it was time for my mother to get married again.

This was her fourth time, fifth if you include my father. I chose not to. But they were, in her eyes, married – if being united in the middle of the desert by someone they'd met at a rest stop only moments before counts as married. It does to my mother. But then, she takes on husbands the way people change their hair colour: our of boredom, listlessness, or just feeling that this next one will fix everything, once and for all. Back when I was younger, when I asked about my dad and how they'd met, when I was actually still curious, she'd just sigh, waving her hand, and say, "Oh, Draco, it was the seventies. You know."

My mother always thinks I know everything. But she's wrong. All I knew about the seventies was what I'd learned in school and from the History Channel: Vietnam, President Carter, disco. All I knew about my father, really, was "This lullaby." Through my life I'd heard it in the backgrounds of commercials and movies, at weddings, dedicated long-distance on the radio countdowns. My father may be gone, but the song – schmaltzy, stupid, and insipid – goes on. Eventually it will even outlive me.

It was in the middle of the second chorus that Severus Snape of Severus Snape's Vehicles stuck his head out of his office and saw me. "Draco, son, sorry you had to wait. Come on in."

I got up and followed him. In eight days, Severus would become my stepfather, joining a not-so-exclusive group. He was the first car salesman, the second Gemini, the only one with money of his own. He and my mother met right there in his office, when we came in to buy her a new Camry. I'd come along because I know my mother: she'd pay the list price right off the bat, assuming it was set, like she was buying oranges or toilet paper at the grocery store, and of course they'd let her, because my mother is somewhat well known and everyone thinks she is rich.

Our first salesman looked right out of college and almost collapsed when my mother waltzed up to a fully loaded new-year model, then poked her head inside to get a whiff of that new-car smell. She took a deep gulp, smiled, and announced, "I'll take it!" with characteristic flourish.

"Mum," I said, trying not to grit my teeth. But she knew better. The entire ride over I'd been prepping her, with specific instructions on what to say, how to act, everything we needed to do to get a good deal. She kept telling me she was listening, even as she kept fiddling with the air-conditioning vents and playing with my automatic windows. I swear that was what had really led to this new-car fever: the fact that I had just gotten one.

So after she'd blown it, it was up to me to take over. I started asking the salesman direct questions, which made him nervous. He kept glancing past me, at her, as if I was some kind of trained attack dog she could easily put into a sit. I'm used to this. But just as he really started to squirm we were interrupted by Severus Snape himself, who made quick work of sweeping us into his office and falling hard for my mother in a matter of about fifteen minutes. They sat there making googly eyes at each other while I haggled him down three thousand bucks and got him to throw in a maintenance plan, a sealant coat, and a changer for the CD player. It had to be the best bargain in Toyota history, not that anyone noticed. It is just expected that I will handle it, whatever it is, because I am my mother's business manager, therapist, handyman, and now wedding coordinator. Lucky, lucky, me.

"So, Draco," Severus said as we sat down, him in the big swiveling leather throne behind the desk, me in the just-uncomfortable-enough-to-hurry-the-sale-chair opposite. Everything at the dealership was manufactured to brainwash customers. Like memos to salesman encouraging great deals just casually "strewn" where you could read them, and the way the offices were set up so you could easily "overhear" your salesman pleading for a good deal with his manager. Plus the fact that the window I was now facing opened up to the part of the lot where people picked up their brand-new cars. Every few minutes, one of the salesmen would walk someone right to the center of the window, hand them their shiny new keys, and then smile benevolently as they drove off into the sunset, just like in the commercials. What a bunch of shit.

Now, Severus shifted in his seat, adjusting his tie. He was a pale guy, with greasy hair, and a hooknose: the word vampire came to mind. But he adored my mother, God help him. "What do you need from me today?"

"Okay," I said, reaching into my back pocket for the list I'd brought. "I double-checked with the tux place and they're expecting us this week for the final fitting. The rehearsal diner list is pretty much set at seventy-five, and the caterer will need a check for the rest of the deposit by Monday."

"Fine." He opened a drawer and pulled out the leather binder where he kept his checkbook, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pen. "How much for the caterer."

I glanced down at my paper, swallowed, and said "Five thousand."

He nodded and started writing. To Severus, five thousand bucks was hardly any money at all. This wedding itself was setting him back a good twenty, and that didn't seem to faze him either. Add to the renovation that had been done on our house so we could all live together like one happy family, the debt Severus was forgiving on my brother's truck, and just the day-to-day maintenance of living with my mother, and he was making quite an investment. But then again, this was his first wedding, first marriage. He was a rookie. My family, however, had long been prostatus.

He ripped out the check, slid it across the desk, and smiled. "What else?" he asked me.

I consulted my list again. "Okay, just the band, I think. The people at the reception hall were asking –"

"It's under control," he said, waving his hand. "They'll be there. Tell your mother not to worry."

I smiled at this, because he expected me to, but we both knew she wasn't worrying at all about this wedding. She picked out her dress, decided on flowers, and then pushed the rest off to me, claiming she needed absolutely every free second to work on her latest book. But the truth was, my mother hated details. She loved to plunge into projects, tackle them for about then minutes, and then lose all interest. All around our house were little piles of things that had once held her attention: aromatherapy kits, family tree software, stacks of Japanese cookbooks, and aquarium with four sides covered in algae and one sole survivor, a fat white fish who had eaten all the others.

Most people put off my mother's erratic behaviour to the fact that she was a writer, as if that explained everything. To me that was just an excuse. I mean, brain surgeons can be crazy too, but no one say's its all right. Fortunately for my mother, I am alone in this opinion.

"…Is so soon!" Severus said, tapping his finger on the calendar. "Can you believe it?"

"No," I said, wondering what the first part of his sentence had been. I added, "It's just amazing."

He smiled at me, then glanced back at the calendar, where I now saw the wedding day, June 10, was circled several times in different colours of pen. I guess you couldn't blame him for being excited. Before he met my mother, Severus was at the age where most of his friends had given up on him ever getting married. For the last fifteen year's he'd lived alone in a condo right off the highway, spending most of his waking hours selling more Toyotas than anyone else in the state. Now, in nine days, he would get not only Narcissa Malfoy, romance novelist extraordinaire, but also, in a package deal, my mother Chris and I. And he was happy about it. It _was _amazing.

Just then the intercom on his desk buzzed, loudly, and a woman's voice came on. "Severus, Jason has an eight-fifty-seven on deck, needs your input. Should I send them in?"

Severus glanced at me, then pushed down the button and said, "Sure. Give me five seconds."

"Eight fifty-seven?" I asked.

"Just dealership lingo," he said easily, standing up. He smoothed down his hair, smearing the grease. Behind him, on the other side of the window, a ruddy-faced salesman was handing a woman with a toddler the keys to her new car: she look them as the kid tugged on her skirt, trying to get her attention. She didn't seem to notice. "Hate to push you out, but –"

"I'm done," I told him, tucking the list back in my pocket.

"I really appreciate all you're doing for us, Draco," he said as he came around the desk. He put one hand on my shoulder, Dad style and I tried not to remember all the stepfathers before him that had done the same thing, that same weight, carrying the meaning. They all thought they were permanent too.

"No problem," I sad as he moved his hand and opened the door for me. Waiting for us out in the hallway was a salesman, standing with what had to be that eight fifty-seven – code for an on-the-fence customer, I assumed – a short woman who was clutching her handbag and wearing a sweatshirt with an appliquéd kitten on it.

"Severus," the salesman said smoothly, "this is Ruth, and we're trying our hardest to get her into a new Corolla today."

Ruth looked nervously from Severus to me, and then back to Severus. "I just –" she sputtered.

"Ruth, Ruth," Severus said soothingly. "Let's just all sit down for a minute and talk about what we can do for you. Okay?"

"That's right," the salesman echoed, gently prodding her foreword. "We'll just talk."

"Okay," Ruth said, somewhat uncertainly, and started into Severus' office. As she passed she glanced at me, as if I were part of this, and it was all I could do not to tell her to run, fast and not look back.

I was halfway across the showroom when I remembered that my mother had asked me to please, _please_ remind Severus about cocktails tonight. Her new editor was in town for the evening, ostensibly just passing through from Atlanta and wanting to stop in and be social. Her true motivation, however, was that my mother owed her publisher a novel, and everyone was starting to get a little ansy about it.

I turned around and walked back down the hallway to Severus' office. The door was still closed, and I could hear voices murming behind it.

The clock on the opposite wall was the school kind, with big black numbers and a wobbly second hand. It was already one-fifteen. The day after my high school graduation and here I was, not beach bound, or sleeping off a hangover like everyone else. I was running wedding errands, like a plaid employee, while my mother lay in her king-size Sealy Posturepedic, with the shades drawn tight, getting the sleep she claimed was crucial to her creative process.

And that was all it took to feel it. That slow, simmering burn in my stomach that I always felt when I let myself see how far the scale had tipped in her favour. It was either It was either resentment or what was left of my ulcer, or maybe both. The Muzak overhead was growing louder, as if someone was fiddling with the volume, so that now I was getting blasted with a rendition of some Barbara Streisand song. I crossed one leg over the other and closed my eyes, pressing my fingers into the arms of the chair. Just a few weeks of this, I told myself, and I'm gone.

Just then, someone plopped down hard into the chair on left, knocking me sideways into the wall; it was jarring, and I hit my elbow onto the molding there, right in the funny bone, which sent a tingly zap all the way up to my fingers. And suddenly, just like that, I was pissed. Really pissed. It's amazing how all it takes is one shove to make you curious.

"What the _hell_," I said, pushing off the wall, ready to take off the head of whatever stupid salesperson had decided to get cozy with me. My elbow was still buzzing, and I could feel a hot flush creeping up my neck: bad signs. I knew my temper.

I turned my head and saw it wasn't a salesman at all. It was a guy with unruly black hair, emerald green eyes, around my age, wearing a bright orange T-shirt. And for some reason he was _smiling._

"Hey there," he said cheerfully. "How's it going?"

"What is your problem?" I snapped, rubbing my elbow.

"Problem?"

"You just slammed me into the wall, asshole."

He blinked. "Goodness," he said finally. "Such _language_."

I just looked at him. Wrong day, buddy, I thought. You caught me on the wrong day.

'"The thing is," he said, as if we'd been discussing the weather or world politics, "I saw you out in the showroom. I was over by the tire display?"

I was sure I was glaring at him. But he kept talking.

"I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together."

"You got all this," I said, clarifying, "at the tire display?"

"You didn't feel it?" he asked.

"No. I did, however, feel you slamming me into the wall," I said evenly.

"That," he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to me, "was an accident. An oversight. Just an unfortunate result of the enthusiasm I felt knowing I was just about to talk to you."

I just looked at him. Overhead, The Muzak was now playing a spirited version of the Severus Snape's Vehicles theme song, all plinking and plunking.

"Go away," I told him.

"He smiled again, running a hand through his hair. The Muzak was now building a crescendo over us, the speaker popping, as if close to short-circuiting. We both glanced up, then at each other.

"You know what?" he said, pointing up at the speaker, which popped again, louder this time, then hissed before resuming the theme song at full blast. "From now on, forever" he pointed up again, jabbing with his finger, "this will be our song."

"Oh, Jesus," I said, and right then I _was_ saved, hallelujah, as Severus' office door swung open and Ruth, led by her salesman, came out. She was holding a sheaf of papers and wore that stunned, recently depleted of thousands looks on her tired face. But she did have the complimentary fake-gold-plated key chain, all hers.

I stood up, and the guy beside me leapt to his feet. "Wait, I only want…"

"Severus?" I called out, ignoring him.

"Just take this," the guy said, grabbing my hand. He turned it palm up before I could even react, and pulled a pen out of his back pocket, then proceeded, I am not joking, to write a name and phone number in the space between my thumb and forefinger.

"You are insane," I said, jerking my hand back, which caused the last digits to get smeared and knocked the pen out of his hand. It clattered to the floor, rolling under a nearby gumball machine.

"Yo, Romeo!" someone yelled from the showroom and there was a burst of laughter. "Come on man, Lets go!"

I looked up at him, still incredulous. Talk about not respecting a person's boundaries. I'd dumped drinks on guys for even brushing against me at a club, much less yanking my hand and actually _writing_ on it.

He glanced behind him, then back at me. "I'll see you soon," he said, and grinned at me.

"Like hell," I replied, but then he was already going, dodging the truth and minivan in the showroom and out the front glass door, where a beat up white van was idling by the curb. The back door flung open and he moved to climb in, but the van jerked forward, making him stumble, before stopping again. He sighed, put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky, then grabbed the door by the handle again, this time accompanied by someone beeping the horn.

I looked down at my hand, where the black ink was scrawled 933-54somethingsomething, with one word beneath it. God, his handwriting was sloppy. A big H, a smear on the last letter. And what a stupid name. Harry.

When I got home, the first thing I noticed was the music. Classical , soaring, filling the house with wailing oboes and flowing violins. Then, the smell of candles, vanilla, just tangy sweet enough to make you wince. And finally, the dead giveaway, a trail of crumpled papers strewn like breadcrumbs from the foyer, through the kitchen, and leading to the sun porch.

Thank god, I thought. She's writing again.

I dropped my keys on the table by the door and bent down, picking up one-balled up piece of paper by my feet, then uncrumpled it as I walked toward the kitchen. My mother was very superstitious about her work, and only wrote on the beat up old typewriter she'd once dragged around the country when she did freelance music articles for a newspaper in San Francisco. It was loud, had a clanging bell that sounded whenever she reached the end of a line, and looked like some remnant from the days of the Pony Express. She had a brand new top of the line computer too, but she only used that to play solitaire.

I continued picking up discarded papers as I walked, balling them into my hand. They didn't vary much. In one, the setting was in L.A., not New York, and in another Brock Dobbin became Dock Brobbin, only to be switched back again. Small details, but it always took a little while for my mother to hit her stride. Once she did, though, watch out. She'd finished her last book in three and half weeks, and it was big enough to function effectively as a doorstop.

The music, and the clanging of the typewriter, both got louder and I walked into the kitchen, where my brother, Chris, was ironing a shirt on the kitchen table, the salt and pepper shakers and napkin holder all pushed to one side.

"Hey," he said, brushing his hair out of his face. The iron hissed as he picked it up, then smoothed it over the edge of the collar of the shirt, pressing down hard.

"How long's she been at it?" I asked, pulling the trash can out from under the sink and dumping the papers into it.

He shrugged, letting some steam hiss out and stretching his fingers. "A couple hours now, I guess."

I glanced past him, through the dining room to the sun porch, where I could see my mother hunched over the typewriter, a candle beside her, pounding away. It was always weird to watch her. She really slammed the keys, throwing her whole body into it, as if she couldn't get the words out fast enough. She'd keep it up for hours at a time, finally emerging with her fingers cramped, back aching, and a good fifty pages, which would be enough to keep her editor in New York satisfied for the time being.

I sat down at the table flipped through a stack of mail by the fruit bowl as Chris turned the shirt over, nudging the iron slowly around one cuff. He was a really slow ironer, to the point that more than once I'd just jerk it away, unable to stand how long it took him to do just one the collar. The only thing I can't stand more than seeing something done wrong is seeing it done slowly.

"Big night tonight?" I asked him. He was leaning close to the shirt now, really focusing on the front pocket.

"Jennifer Anne's having a dinner party," he said. "It's smart casual."

"Smart casual?"

"It means," he said slowly, still concentrating, "no jeans, but not quite a sport jacket event either. Ties optional. That kind of thing."

I rolled my eyes. Six moths ago, my brother wouldn't have been able to define _smart_ much less _casual_. Ten months earlier, on his twenty-first birthday, Chris had gotten busted at a party selling pot. It wasn't his first brush with the law, by any means: during high school he'd racked up a few breaking and entering, one DWI, and one possession of a controlled substance. But the party bust did him in, and he did jail time. Only three months, but it scared him enough to shape up and get a job at the local Jiffy Lube, where he'd met Jennifer Anne when she'd brought her Saturn in for a thirty-thousand-mile checkup.

Jennifer Anne was what my mother called "a piece of work," which meant she wasn't scared of either of us and didn't care if we knew it. She was a small girl with big blond hair, whip smart, though we hated to admit it, and had done more with brother in six months than we'd ever managed in twenty-one years. She had him dressing better, working harder, and using proper grammar, including wacky new terms like "networking" and "multitasking" and "smart casual". She worked as a receptionist for a conglomerate of doctors, but referred to herself as an "office specialist". Jennifer Anne could make anything sound better than it was. I'd recently overhead her describing Chris' job as a "multilevel automotive lubrication expert," which made working at Jiffy Lube sound on a par with heading up NASA.

Now Chris lifted the shirt off the table and held it up, shaking it slightly as the typewriter bell clanged again from the other room. "What do you think?"

"Looks okay," I said. "You missed a big crease on the right sleeve, though."

He glanced down at it, and then sighed. "This is so freaking hard," he said, putting it back on the table. "I don't see why people bother."

"I don't see why _you_ bother," I said. "Since when do you need to be wrinkle free anyway? You used to consider wearing pants dressing up."

"Cute," he said, making a face at me. "You wouldn't understand, anyway."

"Yeah, right. Excuse me, Eggbert, I keep forgetting you're the smart one."

He straightened the shirt, not looking at me. "What I mean," he said slowly, "is that you'd just have to know that it's like to want to do something nice for somebody else. Out of consideration. Out of love."

"Oh, Jesus," I said.

"Exactly." He picked up the shirt again. The wrinkle was still there, not that I was going to point it out now. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Compassion. Relationships. Two things you are sadly, and sorely, lacking."

"I am the King of relationships," I said indignantly. "And hello, I just spent the entire morning planning our mother's wedding. That is so fucking compassionate of me."

"You," he said, folding the shirt neatly over one arm, waiter style, and "have yet to experience any kind of serious commitment"

"What?"

"… And you have bitched and moaned so much about the wedding I'd hardly call that compassionate."

I just stood there, staring at him. There was no reasoning with him lately. It was like he'd been brainwashed by some religious cult. "Who are you?" I asked him.

"All I'm saying," He replied, quietly," is that I'm really. And I wish you could be happy too. Like this."

"I am happy," I snapped, and I meant it, although it sounded bitter just because I was so pissed off. "I am," I repeated, in a more level voice.

He reached over and patted my shoulder, as if he knew better. "I'll see you later," he said, turning and heading up the kitchen stairs to his room. I watched him go, carrying his still-wrinkled shirt, and realized I was clenching my teeth, something I found myself doing too often lately.

_Bing!_ Went the typewriter bell from the other room, and my mother started another line. Melanie and Brock Dobbin were probably halfway to heartbreak already, by the sound of it. My mother's novels were the gasping romantic type, spreading across several exotic locales and peopled with characters that had everything and yet nothing. Riches yet poverty of the heart and so on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not my idea. Get over it.**

Chapter 2 

It was time to dump Jonathan.

"Tell me again, why you're doing this?" Pansy asked me. She was sitting on my bed, flipping through my CDs and smoking a cigarette, which was fast stinking up my room even though she'd sworn it wouldn't, since she had it halfway out the window. Even before I quit I'd hated the stink of smoking, but with Pansy I always let things slide more than I should have. I think everyone has at least one friend like that. "I mean, I like Jonathan."

"You like everybody," I told her, leaning closer to the mirror and examining my pale blond hair.

"That's not true," she said, picking up a CD and turning it over to examine the back. "I never liked Mr. Mitchell. He always looked at my boobs when I went up to do theorems on the board. He looked at _everybody's _boobs."

"Pansy," I said, "high school is over. And besides, teachers don't count."

"I'm just saying," she said.

"The thing is," I went on as I ran my hands through my hair, "that it's summer now, and I'm leaving for school in September. And Jonathan… I don't know. He's just not a keeper. He's not worth working my schedule around if we're only going to break up in a few weeks anyway."

"But you might not break up"

I leaned back, admiring my handiwork. 'We'll break up," I said. "I'm not going to Stanford with any other entanglements than absolutely necessary."

She bit her lip, and then tucked a springy curl behind one ear, ducking her head with the hurt expression she always got lately when we talked about the end of the summer. Pansy's safety zone was the eight weeks left before we all split for different directions, and she hated to think past that. "Well, of course not," she said quietly. "I mean, why would you?"

"Pansy," I said, sighing, "I didn't mean you. You know that. I just mean," I gestured to the bedroom door, slightly ajar, beyond which we could hear my mother's typewriter still clacking, with violins drifting in the background, "you know."

She nodded. But in truth I knew she didn't understand. Pansy was the only one of us who would even slightly sentimental about high school being over. She'd actually cried at graduation, great heaving sobs, ensuring that in every picture and video she'd be red-eyed and blotchy, giving her something to complain about for the next twenty years. Meanwhile, Greg and Blaise couldn't wait to get across that stage and grab our diploma, to be free at last, free at last. But Pansy had always felt things too deeply. That was what made us all so protective of her, and why I worried most about leaving her behind. She'd gotten accepted into the local university with a full scholarship, and a deal too good to pass up. It helped that her boyfriend, Adam, was going there too. Pansy had it all planned out, how they'd go to freshman orientation together, live in dorms that were in close proximity, share a couple classes. Just like high school, but bigger.

The very thought of it made me itch. But then, I wasn't Pansy. I'd powered through the last two years with my eyes on the one thing, which was getting out. Getting gone. Making the grades I needed to finally live a life that was all my own. No wedding planning. No messy romantic entanglements. No revolving door of stepfathers. Just me and the future, finally together. Now there was a happy ending I could believe in.

Pansy reached over and turned up the radio, filling the room with some boppy song with a la la la chorus. I walked over to my closet, pulling open the door to examine my options.

"So what do you wear to dump somebody?" she asked me, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. "Black, for mourning? Or something cheerful and colourful, to distract them from their pain? Or maybe you wear some sort of camouflage, something that will help you disappear quickly in case they don't take it well."

"Personally," I told her, pulling out a pair of black pants and turning them in my hands. "I'm thinking dark and slimming. And clean underwear."

"You wear that every night."

"This is every night," I replied. I knew I had a clean black shirt I liked somewhere in my closet, but I couldn't find it in the shirt section. Which meant somebody had been in there, picking around. I kept my closet the way I kept everything: neat and tidy. My mother's house was usually in chaos, so my room had always been the only place I could keep the way I chose. Which was in order, perfectly organised, everything where I could easily find it. Okay, so maybe I was a little obsessive. But so what? At least I wasn't a slob.

"Not for Jonathan," she said, and when I glanced at her she added, "I mean, this is a big night for him. He's getting dumped, and he doesn't even _know_ it yet. He's probably eating a cheeseburger or flossing or picking up his dry cleaning, and he has no idea. No inkling."

I gave up on the black shirt, pulled out another one instead. I didn't even know what to say to her. Yes, it sucked getting dumped. But wasn't it better to just be brutally honest? To admit that your feeling for someone is never going to be powerful enough to justify taking up any more of their time? I was doing him a favour, really. Freeing him up for a better opportunity. In fact, I was practically a saint, if you really thought about it.

Exactly.

A half hour later, when we pulled up to the Quik Zip, Greg was waiting for us. As usual, Blaise was late.

"Hey," I said, walking over to him. He was leaning against his big tank of a car, an old Chevy with a sagging bumper, and sucking on an Extra Large Zip Coke, our drug of choice. They were the best bargain in town, at $1.59, and served a multitude of uses.

"I'm getting Skittles," Pansy called out, slamming her door. "Anybody want anything?"

"Zip diet," I told her, and reached for my money, but she shook me off, already heading inside. "Extra large!"

She nodded as the door swung shut behind her. She even walked perkily, hands jauntily in her pockets as she headed for the candy aisle. Pansy's sweet tooth was infamous: she was the only person I knew who could discern between Raisinets and chocolate-covered raisins. There _was_ a difference.

"Where's Blaise?" I asked Greg, but he just shrugged, not even taking his lips off the straw of his Zip coke. "Did we not say seven-thirty sharp?"

He raised an eyebrow at me. "Calm down, anal retentive," he said, shaking his drink. The ice rattled around, sloshing in what was left of the liquid. "It's just six right now."

I sighed, leaning back against his car. I hated when people were late. But Blaise always ran five minutes behind, on a good day. Pansy was usually early, and Greg was Greg: solid as a rock, there right on the dot. He'd been my best friend since the fifth grade, and was the only one I knew I could always depend on.

We met because our desks sat side by side, per Mrs. Douglas's alphabet system. Mike Schemen the nose picker, then Greg, then me, with Adam Struck, who had bad adenoids, on my other side. It was practically required that we be best friends, seeing as the booger twins surrounded us.

Greg was big, even then. He wasn't fat, exactly, just like he wasn't fat now. More just large, big-boned, tall and wide. Thick. Back then, he was bigger than any of the boys in our class, brutal at dodge ball, able to hit hard enough with one of those red medicine balls before school that it left a mark that lasted through final bell. A lot of people thought Greg was mean, but they were wrong. They didn't know what I knew: his mother had died that summer, leaving him to raise two little brothers while his dad worked full-time at the power plant. That money was always right, and Greg didn't get to be a kid anymore.

And eight years later, after making it through some hellish middle school and decent high school years, we were still close. Mostly because I did know these things about him, and Greg still kept most stuff to himself. But also because he was one of the only people who just didn't take my shit, and I had to respect that.

"Looky look," he said now in his flat voice, crossing his arms over his chest. "The king has arrived."

Blaise pulled up beside us, cutting the engine on his Mercedes and flipping down the visor to check his hair. Greg sighed, loudly, but I ignored him. This was old news, him and Blaise, like background music. Only if things were really quiet or dull did the rest of us even notice it anymore.

Blaise got out, slamming his door, and came over to us. He looked great, as usual: black pants, blue shirt, and cool jacket I hadn't seen before. His mom was a flight attendant and compulsive shopper, a deadly combination that resulted in Blaise always having the newest stuff from the best places. Our little trendsetter.

"Hey, where's Pansy?"

I nodded towards the Quik Zip, where Pansy was now at the counter, chatting up the guy behind the counter as he rang up her candy. We watched as she waved good-bye to him and came out, a bag of skittles already opened in one hand. "Who wants one?" she called out, smiling as she saw Chloe. "Hey! God, great jacket."

"Thanks," Blaise said, brushing his fingers over it. "It's new."

"Is that surprising?" Greg said sarcastically.

"Is that diet?" Blaise shot back, eyeing the drink in Greg's hand.

"All right, All right," I said, waving my hand between them. Pansy handed me my Zip Diet, and I took a big sip, savouring the taste. It was the nectar of the gods. Truly. "What's the plan?"

"I have to meet Adam at Double Burger at six-thirty," Pansy said, popping another skittle into her mouth. "Then we'll catch up with you guys at Bendo or whatever."

"Who's at Bendo?" Blaise asked, jangling his keys.

"Don't know," Pansy said. "Some band. There's also a party we can go to in the Arbors, Matthew Ridgefield has a keg somewhere, oh and Draco has to dump Jonathan."

Now, everyone looked at me. "Not necessarily in that order," I added.

"So Jonathan's out." Blaise laughed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He held them out to me, and I shook my head.

"He quit," Greg said to her. "Remember?"

"He's always quitting," Blaise replied, striking a match and leaning into it, then shaking it out. "What'd he do, Draco? Stand you up? Declare undying love?"

I just shook my head, knowing what was coming.

Greg grinned and said, "He wore a mismatching outfit."

"Smoked in his car," Blaise said. "That's got to be it."

"Maybe," Pansy offered, pinching my arm, "he made a major grammatical error and was fifteen minutes late."

"Oh, the horror!" Blaise shrieked, and all three of them burst out laughing. I just stood there, taking it, realizing not for the first time that they only seemed to get along when ragging on me as a group.

"Funny," I said finally. Okay, so maybe I did have a bit of history with expecting too much from relationships. But God, at least I had standards. Blaise only dated college guys who cheated on him, Greg avoided the issue by never dating anyone, and Pansy, well Pansy was still with the guy she lost her virginity to, so she hardly counted at all. Not that I was going to point this out. I mean, I was all about the high road.

"Okay, okay," Greg, said finally. "How are we doing this?"

"Pansy goes to meet Adam," I said. "You, me, and Blaise hit the Spot and then go on to Bendo. Okay?"

"Okay," Pansy said. "I'll see you guys later." As she drove off, and Blaise moved her car to the church parking lot next door, Greg lifted up my hand, squinting at it.

"What's this?" he asked me. I glanced down, seeing the black letters, smudged but still there, on my palm. Before leaving the house I'd meant to wash it off, then got distracted. "A phone number?"

"It's nothing," I said. "Just this stupid guy I met today."

"You heartbreaker," He said.

We piled into Greg's car, me in front, Blaise in the back. He made a face as he pushed aside a laundry hamper full of clothes, a football helmet, and some kneepads that belonged to Greg, but he didn't say anything. Blaise and Greg may have had their differences, but he knew where to draw the line.

"The spot?" Greg asked me as he cranked the engine. I nodded, and he put the car in reverse, backing up slowly. I reached forward and turned on the radio while Blaise lit another cigarette in the backseat, tossing the match out the window. As we were about to pull out onto the road, Greg nodded toward a big metal trashcan by the gas pumps, about twenty feet away.

"Bet me?" he asked, and I craned my neck, judging the distance, then picked up his mostly empty Zip Coke and shook it, feeling its weight.

"Sure," I said. "Two bucks."

"Oh, God," Blaise said from the backseat, exhaling loudly. "Now that we're out of high school, can we please move on from this?"

Greg ignored him, picking up the Zip Coke and pressing his hand around it, flexing his wrist, then stuck his arm out of the driver's window. He squinted, lifted his chin, and then, in one smooth movement, threw his arm up and released the Zip coke, sending it arcing over our heads and the car. We watched as it turned end over end in the air, a perfect spiral, before disappearing with a crash, top still on and straw engaged, in the trashcan.

"Amazing," I said to Greg. He smiled at me. "I never have been able to figure out how you do that."

"Can we go now?" Blaise asked.

"Like everything else," Greg said, turning out into traffic, "it's all in the wrist."

The Spot, where we always started our night, really belonged to Blaise. When his dad left and mom divorced back in the third grade, he'd left town with his new girlfriend, selling off most of the property he'd assumed in town while working as a developer. He only kept one lot, out in the country past our high school, a grassy field with nothing on it but a trampoline he'd bought for Blaise on his seventh birthday. Blaise's mom had banished it quick from the backyard – it didn't match her English garden décor, all sculpted hedges and stone benches – and it ended up out on the land, forgotten until we were all old enough to drive and needed someplace of our own.

We always sat on the trampoline, which was set up in the middle of the pasture, with the best view of the stars and sky. It still had some good bounce to it, enough so that any sudden movement by anybody jostled the rest. Which was good to remember whenever you were pouring something.

"Watch it," Blaise said to Greg, his arm jerking as he poured some rum into my Zip coke. It was one of those little airplane bottles, which her mom regularly brought home from work. Their liquor cabinet looked like it was designed for munchkins.

"Oh, settle down," Greg replied, crossing his legs and leaning back on his palms.

"It's always like this when Pansy isn't here," Blaise grumbled, opening up another bottle for himself. "The balance of weight gets all out of whack."

"Blaise," I said. "Give it a rest." I took a sip of my Zip Coke, now spiked, tasting the rum, and offered it to Greg purely out of politeness. She never drank, never smoked. Always drove. Being a Dad for so long to his brothers made it a given he'd be the same to us.

"Nice night," I said to him now, and he nodded. "Hard to believe it's all over."

"Thank God," Blaise said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not a second too soon, either."

"Let's drink to that," I said, and leaned forward to press my cup against his tiny bottle. Then we just sat there, suddenly quiet, no noise except the cicadas starting up in the trees all around us.

"It's so weird," Blaise, said finally, "that it doesn't feel different now."

"What?" I asked him.

"Everything," he said. "I mean, this is what we've been waiting for, right? High school's over and it's a whole new thing but it feels exactly the same."

"That's because nothing new has started yet," Greg told him. He had his face tipped up, eyes on the sky above us. "By the end of the summer, then things will feel new. Because they will be."

Blaise pulled another tiny bottle – this time gin – out of her jacket pocket and popped the top. "It sucks to wait, though," he said, taking a sip of it. "I mean, for everything to begin."

There was the sound of a horn beeping, loud and then fading out as it passed on the road behind us. That was the nice thing about the Spot: you could hear everything, but no one could see you.

"This is just the in between time," I said. "It goes faster than you think."

"I hope so," Blaise said, and I eased back on my elbows, tilting my head back to look up at the sky, which was pinkish, streaked with red. This was the times we knew best, that stretch of day going from dusk to dark. It seemed like we were always waiting for nighttime here. I could feel the trampoline easing up and down, moved by our own breathing, bringing us in small increments up and back from the sky as the colours faded, slowly, and the stars began to show themselves.

By the time we got to Bendo, it was nine o'clock and I had a nice buzz on. We pulled up, parked, and eyed the bouncer standing by the door.

"Perfect," I said, pulling down the visor to check my hair. "It's Rodney."

"Where's my ID?" Blaise said, digging through his jacket. "God, I just had it."

"Is it in your back pocket?" I asked him, turning around. He blinked, stuck his hand in his pants and came up with it. Blaise kept everything in his back pockets: I.D, money, credit cards. It was like sleight of hand, the way he pulled things out from it, like quarters from your ear, or rabbits in a hat.

"Bingo," he said, sticking it in his front pocket.

"So classy," Greg said.

"Look who's talking," Blaise said.

"Stop," I said. "Let's go."

As we walked up, Rodney eyed us from where he was sitting on a stool propping the door open. Bendo was an eighteen and up club, but we'd been coming since sophomore year. You had to be twenty-one to drink, though, and with our fakes Blaise and I usually could get our hand stamped. Especially by Rodney.

"Draco, Draco," he said as I reached into my pocket, pulling out my fake. My name, my face, my brother's birthday, so I could quote it quickly if I had to. "How's it feeling to be a high school graduate?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, smiling at him. "You know I'm a junior at the university."

He hardly glanced at my ID but squeezed my hand, brushing it with his fingers as he stamped it. Disgusting. "What's your major?"

"English lit," I said. "But I'm minoring in business."

"I got some business for you," he said, taking Blaise's ID and stamping his hand. He was quick though, pulling back fast, the ink smearing.

"You're an asshole," Greg told him, but he just shrugged, waving us in, his eyes on the next group of girls coming up the steps.

"I feel so dirty," Blaise sighed as we walked in.

"You'll feel better after you have a beer."

Bendo was crowded already. The band hadn't come on yet, but the bar was two deep and the air was full of smoke, thick and mixed with the smell of sweat.

"I'll get a table," Greg called out to me, and I nodded, heading for the bar with Blaise behind me. We pushed through the crowd, dodging people, until we got a decent spot by the beer taps.

I'd just hoisted myself up on my elbows, trying to wave down the bartender, when I felt someone brush up against me. I tried to pull away, but it was packed where I was standing, so I just drew myself in a bit, pulling my arms against my side. Then, very quietly, I heard a voice in my ear.

It said, in a weird, cheesy, right out of one of my mother's novels way, "Ah. We meet again."

I turned my head, just slightly, and right there, practically on top of me, was the guy from the car dealership. He was wearing a red mountain fresh detergent t-shirt – _Not just fresh: mountain fresh!_ – it proclaimed, and was smiling at me. "Oh, God." I said.

"No, It's Harry," he replied, offering me his hand, which I ignored. Instead I glanced around behind me for Blaise, but saw a guy in a plaid shirt I didn't recognise had waylaid him.

"Two beers!" I shouted at the bartender, who'd finally seen me.

"Make that three!" this Harry yelled.

"You are _not_ with me," I said.

"Well, not technically," he replied, shrugging. "But that could change."

"Look," I said as the bartender dropped three plastic cups in front of me," "I'm not –"

"I see you still have my number," he said, interrupting me and grabbing of the beers. He also slapped a ten down, which redeemed him a bit but not too much.

"I haven't had a chance to wash it off."

"Will you be impressed if I tell you I'm in a band?"

"No."

"Not at all?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "God, I thought chicks loved guys in band."

"First off, I'm not a chick," I said, grabbing my beer. "And second, I have a steadfast rule about musicians."

"Which is?"

I turned my back to him and started to elbow my way through the crowd, back to Blaise. "No musicians."

"I could write you a song," he offered, following me. I was moving so fast the beers I was carrying kept sloshing, but damn if he didn't keep right up.

"I don't want a song."

"Everybody wants a song!"

"Not me." I tapped Blaise on the shoulder and he turned around. He had on his flirting face, all wide-eyed and flushed, and I handed him his beer and said, "I'm going to find Greg."

"I'm right behind you," he replied, waggling his fingers at the guy he'd been talking to. But crazy musician boy kept after me, still talking.

"I think you like me," he decided as I stepped on somebody's foot, prompting a yelp. I kept moving.

"I really do not," I said, finally spying Greg in a corner booth, head propped on one elbow, looking bored. When he saw me he held up both hands, in a what the hell gesture, but I just shook my head.

"Who is this guy?" Blaise called out from behind me.

"Nobody," I said.

"Harry," he replied, turning a bit to offer him his hand while still keeping step with me. "How are you?"

"Fine," he replied uneasily. "Draco?"

"Just keep walking," I called behind me, stepping around two guys in dreadlocks. "He'll lose interest eventually."

"Oh, ye of little faith," he said cheerfully. "I'm just getting started."

We arrived at the booth in a pack: me, Harry the musician, and Blaise. I was out of both, he looked confused, but he just slid in next to Greg, offering his hand. "Hi," he said. "I'm with them."

Greg looked at me, but I was too tired to do anything but plop into the booth and suck down a gulp of my beer. "Well," he said, "_I'm_ with them. But I'm not with you. How is that possible?"

"Well," he said. "It's actually an interesting story."

No one said anything for a minute. Finally I groaned and said, "God, you guys, now he's going to tell it."

"See," he began, leaning back into the booth, "I was at this car dealership today, and I saw this guy. It was an across a crowded room kind of thing. A real moment, you know?"

I rolled my eyes. Blaise said, "And this would be Draco?"

"Right, Draco," he said, repeating my name with a smile. Then, as if we were happy honeymooners recounting our story for strangers he added, "Do you want to tell the next part?"

"No," I said flatly.

"So," he went on, slapping the table for emphasis, making all our drinks jump, "the fact is that I'm a man of impulse. Of action. So I walked up, plopped down beside her, and introduced myself."

Blaise looked at me, smiling. "Really," he said.

"Could you go away now?" I asked him just as the music overhead cut off and there was a tapping noise from the stage, followed by someone saying "check, check."

"Duty calls," he said, standing up. He pushed his half-finished beer over to me and said; "I'll see you later?"

"No."

"Okay, then! We'll talk later." And then he pushed off, into the crowd, and was gone. We all just sat there for a second. I finished my beer, then closed my eyes and lifted the cup, pressing it to my temple. How could I already be exhausted?

"Draco," Blaise said finally in his clever voice. "You're keeping secrets."

"I'm not," I told him. "It was just this stupid thing. I'd forgotten all about it."

"He talks too much," Greg decided.

"I liked his shirt," Blaise told her. "Interesting fashion sense."

Just then Jonathan slid in beside me in the booth. "Hello ladies," he said, sliding his arm around my waist. Then he picked up the crazy musician boy's beer, thinking it was mine, and took a big sip. I would have stopped him, but just the fact that he did it was part of our problem. I hated it when guys acted proprietary toward me, and Jonathan had done that from the beginning. He was a senior too, a nice guy, but as soon as we'd started dating he wanted everyone to know it, and slowly began to encroach on my domain. He smoked my cigarettes, when I still smoked, and got very comfortable in my car, which should have been the ultimate red flag. I cannot abide anyone even changing my station presets or dipping into my ashtray change, but Jonathan charged right past that and insisted on driving, even though he had a history of fender benders and speeding tickets as long as my arm. The stupidest part was that I let him, flushed as I was with love or lust, and then he just expected I'd ride shotgun, in my own car, forever. Which just led to more Ken behaviour – as in ultra boyfriend – like always grabbing onto me in public and drinking, without asking, what he thought was my beer.

"I've got to go back to the house for a sec, he said now, leaning close to my ear. He moved his hand from around my waist, so it was now cupping my knee. "Come with me, okay?"

I nodded, and he finished off the beer, slapping down the cup on the table. Jonathan was a big partier, another thing I had trouble dealing with. I mean, I drank too. But he was sloppy about it. A puker. In the six months we'd been together I'd spent a fair amount of time at parties outside the bathroom, waiting for him to finish spewing so we could go home. Not a plus.

He slid out of the booth, moving his hand off my knee and closing his fingers around mine. "I'll be back," I said to Greg and Blaise as someone brushed past, and Jonathan filly had to cease contact with me as the crowd separated us.

"Good luck," Blaise said. "I can't believe you let him drink that guy's beer."

I turned and saw Jonathan looking back at me, impatient. "Dead man walking," Greg said in a low voice, and Blaise snorted.

"Bye," I said, and pushed through the crowd, where Jonathan's hand was extended, waiting to take hold of me again.

"Okay, Look," I said, pushing him back. "We have to talk."

"Now?"

"Now."

He sighed, then sat back on the bed, letting his head bonk against the wall. "Okay," he said, as if he were agreeing to a root canal, "go ahead."

I pulled my knees up on the bed, and then straightened my top. "Running in for something" had quickly morphed into "making a few calls" and then he was all over me, pushing me back against the pillows before I could even begin my slow easing into the dumpage. But now, I had his attention.

"The thing is," I began, "things are really starting to change for me now."

This was my lead-up. I'd learned, over the years, that there was a range of techniques involved in breaking up with someone. You had your types: some guys got all indignant and pissed, some whined and cried, some acted indifferent and cold, as if you couldn't leave fast enough. I had Jonathan pegged as the last, but I couldn't be completely sure.

"So anyway," I continued, "I've just been thinking that –"

And then the phone rang, an electronic shriek, and I lost my momentum again. Jonathan grabbed it. "Hello?" Then there was a bit off umm-hmming, a couple of yeahs, and he stood up, walking across the room and into his bathroom, still mumbling.

I pulled my fingers through my hair, hating that my timing seemed to be off all night long. Still listening to him talking, I closed my eyes and stretched my arms over my head, then curled my fingers down the side of the mattress closest to the wall. And then I felt something.

When Jonathan finally hung up, checked himself in the mirror, and walked back into the bedroom, I was sitting there, cross-legged, a pair of red satin boxers spread out on the bed in front of me. [I'd retrieved them using a Kleenex: liked I'd _touch _them. He came strolling in, all confident, and, seeing them, came to a dead lurching stop.

"Ummphtz," he said, or something like that, as he sucked in a breath, surprised, then quickly steadied himself, "Hey, um whats…"

'What the hell," I said, my voice level," "are these?"

"They aren't yours?"

I looked up at the ceiling, shaking my head. Like I'd wear cheap, polyester boxers. I mean, I had standards. Or did I? Look who I'd wasted the last six months on.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you been sleeping with someone else?"

"It wasn't…"

"How long," I repeated, biting off the words.

"I just don't…"

"_How long_."

He swallowed, and for a second it was the only sound in the room. Then he said, "Just a couple of weeks."

I sat back, pressing my fingers to my temples. God, this was just great. Now not only was I cheated on, but also other people had to know it, which made me a victim, which I'd hated most of all. Poor, poor Draco. I wanted to kill him.

"You're an asshole," I said. He was all flushed, quaky, and I realised that he might have even been a whiner or a weeper, had things gone differently. Amazingly. You just never knew.

"Draco. Let me…" He reached forward, touching my arm, but for once, finally, I was able to do what I wanted and yank it back as if he burned me.

"Don't touch me," I snapped. I grabbed my jacket, knotting it around my waist, and headed for the door, feeling him stumbling behind me. I slammed door after door as I moved through the house, finally hitting the front walk with such momentum I was at the mailbox before I even realised it. I could feel him watching me from the front steps as I walked away, but he didn't call out or say anything. Not that I wanted him to, or would have reconsidered. But most guys would have at least had the decency to try.

"Where the hell have you been?" Blaise asked me when I finally got back to Bendo, with the help of City transit, about twenty minutes later.

"You are not going to believe…" I began.

"Not now." She took my arm, pulling me through the crowd and back outside, where I saw Greg was in his car, and the driver's door open. "We have a situation."

When I walked up to the car, I didn't even see Pansy at first. She was balled up in the backseat, clutching a wad of those brown school/restaurant/public bathroom kinds of paper towels. Her face was red and tear streaked, and she was sobbing.

"What the hell happened?" I asked, yanking open the backdoor and sliding in beside her.

"Adam b-b-broke up with m-me," he said, her voice gulping in air. "HE just d-d-dumped me."

"Oh, my God," I said as Blaise climbed in the front seat, slamming the door behind him. Greg, already turned around facing us, looked at me and shook his head.

"When?"

Pansy took in another breath, and then burst into tears again. "I can't," she mumbled, wiping her face with a paper towel, "I can't e-e-even…"

"Tonight, when she picked him up from work," Blaise said to me. "She took him back to his house so he could take a shower and he did it there. No warning. Nothing."

"I had to walk p-p-past his p-p-parents," Pansy added, sniffling. "And they knew. They looked at me like I was a kicked d-d-dog."

"What did he say?" I asked her.

"He told her," Blaise said, clearly in his spokesperson role, "that he needed his freedom because it was summer and high school was over and he didn't want either of them to miss any opportunities in college. He wanted to make sure that they…"

"M-made the most out of our lives," Pansy finished, wiping her eyes.

"Jerk," Greg mumbled. "You're better off."

"I l-l-love him!" Pansy wailed, and I reached over, sliding my arm around her.

"It's okay," I said.

"I had no idea," she said, taking in a deep breath, which shuddered out, all bumpy, as she tossed aside the paper towel she was holding, letting it fall to the floor. "How could I not even have known?"

"Pansy, You'll be okay," Blaise told her, his soft voice.

"It's like I'm Jonathan," she sobbed, leaning into me. "We were just living our lives, picking up the dry cleaning…"

"What?"

"…Unaware," Pansy finished, "that t-t-tonight we'd be d-d-dumped."

"Speaking of," Blaise said to me, "how'd that go?"

"Don't ask," I said.

Pansy was full out crying now, her face buried in my shoulder. Over Blaise's head I could see Bendo was fully packed, with a line out the door. "Let's get out of her," I said to Greg, and he nodded. "This night has sucked anyway."

Blaise dropped down into the front passenger seat, punching in the car lighter as Greg cranked the engine. Pansy blew her nose in the paper towel I handed her, then settled into small, quick sobs, curling against me. As we pulled out I patted her head, knowing how much it had to hurt. There is nothing so bas as the first time.

Of course we had to have another round of Zip drinks. Then Blaise left, and Greg pulled back out into traffic to make Pansy and I to my house.

We were almost to the turnoff to my neighbourhood when Greg suddenly slowed down and said, very quietly to me, "There's Adam."

I cut my eyes to the left, and sure enough, Adam and his friends were standing around in the parking lot in front of the Coffee shack. What really bugged me was that he was _smiling_. Jerk.

I glanced behind me, but Pansy had her eyes closed, stretched out across the backseat, listening to the radio.

"Pull in," I said to Greg. I turned around in my seat. "Hey Pansy?"

"Hmm?" she said.

"Be still, Okay? Stay down."

"Okay," she said uncertainly.

We chugged along. Greg said, "You or me?"

"Me," I told him, taking a last sip of my drink. "I need this tonight."

Greg pushed the gas a little harder. "You ready?" he asked me.

I nodded; my Zip Diet balanced in my head. Perfect.

Greg gunned it, hard, and we were moving. By the time Adam looked over at us, it was too late.

It wasn't my best. But it wasn't bad either. As we whizzed by, the cup turned end over end in the air, seemingly weightless. It hit him square in the back of the head, spilling Diet coke and ice in a wave down his back.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled after us as we blew past. "Pansy! Damnit! Draco! You asshole."

He was still yelling when I lost sight of him.

After a sleeve and a half of Oreos, four cigarettes, and enough Kleenex to pad the world, I finally got Pansy to go to sleep. She was out instantly, breathing through her nose, legs tangled around my comforter.

I got a blanket, one pillow, and went into my closet, where I stretched out across the floor. I could see her from where I was, and made sure she was still sleeping soundly as I pushed aside the stack of shoe boxes I kept in the far right corner and pulled out the bundle I kept there, hidden away.

I'd had such a bad night. I didn't do this all the time, but some nights I just needed it. Nobody knew.

I curled up, pulling the blanket over me, and opened the folded towel, taking out my portable cd player and headphones. Then I slipped them on, turned off the light, and skipped to track seven. There was a skylight in my closet, and if I lay just right, the moonlight fell in a square right across me. Sometimes I could even see stars.

The song starts slowly. A bit of guitar, just a few chords. Then a voice, one I knew so well. The words I knew by heart. They did mean something to me. Nobody had to know. But they did.

This lullaby is only a few words 

_A simple run of chords_

_Quiet here in this spare room_

_But you can hear it, hear it_

_Where you may go_

_I will let you down_

_But this lullaby plays on…_

I'd fall asleep to it, his voice. I always did. Every time.


	3. Chapter 3 Edited

**Disclaimer: Not my story, Not my characters. **

Chapter Three 

"Aieeeee"

"Mother of pearl!"

"Oh, sugar!"

In the waiting room, the two ladies on the deck for manicures looked at each other, then at me.

"Bikini wax," I explained.

"Oh," said one, and went back to her magazine. The other just sat there, ears perked like a hunting hound, waiting for the next shriek. It wasn't long before Mrs. Michaels, enduring her monthly appointment, delivered.

"H-E-double hockey sticks!" Mrs. Michaels was the wife of one of the local ministers, and loved God almost as much as having a smooth, hairless body. In the year I'd worked at Joie salon, I'd heard more cussing from the back rooms where Talinga worked her wax strips than all the other rooms combined. And that included bad manicures, botched haircuts, and even one woman who was near perturbed about a seaweed body wrap that turned her colour of key lime pie.

Not that Joie was a bad place. It was just that you couldn't please everyone, especially women, when it came to their looks. That's why Lola, who owned Joie, had just given me a raise in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, I'd turn my back on going to Stanford and stay at her reception desk forever, keeping people under control.

I'd gotten the job because I wanted a car. My mother had offered to give me her car, and buy herself a new one, but it was important to me that I do this on my own. I loved my mother, but I'd learned long ago not to enter any more agreements with her than I had to. Her whims were legendary, and I could just see her taking the car back when she decided she no longer was happy with her new one.

So I empted out my savings account – which consisted mostly of baby-sitting and Christmas money I'd hoarded forever – got out _Consumer Reports_, and did all the research I could on new models before hitting the dealerships. I wrangled and argued and bluffed and put up with so much car-salesman bullshit it almost killed me, but in the end I got the car I wanted, way off the manufacturer's suggested rip-off retail. The day I picked it up, I drove over to Joie and filled out an application, having seen a _Receptionist wanted_ sign in their front window a week or so earlier. And just like that, I had a car payment and a job, all before my senior year even began.

Now, the phone rang as Mrs. Michaels emerged from the waxing room. At first I'd been startled by how bad people looked right afterward: like war victims, or causalities of a fire. She was walking stiffly – bikini waxes were especially brutal – as she came up to my desk.

"Joie salon," I said into the phone. "Draco speaking."

"Draco, hello, this is Lauren Baker," the woman on the other said in a rushed voice. Mrs. Baker was always all wispy sounding and out of breath. "Oh, you just have to fit me in for a manicure today. Carl's got some big client and we're going to La Corolla and this week I re stripped the coffee table and my hands are just – "

"One second please," I said, in my clipped, oh so professional voice, and hit the hold button. Above me, Mrs. Michaels grimaced as she pulled out her wallet, sliding a gold credit card across to me. "That's seventy-eight ma'am."

She nodded, and I swiped the card, handing it back to her. Her face was so red, the area around her eyebrows practically raw. Ouch. She signed the slip, and then glanced at herself in the mirror behind me, making a face.

"Oh, goodness," she said. "I guess I can't go to the post office looking like this."

"Nonsense!" Talinga, the waxer, said as she breezed in, ostensibly for some good reason but actually to make sure Mrs. Michaels tip was big enough and made it into her envelope. "No one will even notice. I'll see you next month, okay?"

Mrs. Michaels waggled her fingers, then walked out the door, still moving stiffly. Once she hit the curb Talinga grabbed her envelope, leafed through the bills there, and made a hmpf kind of noise before flopping down in a chair and crossing her legs to await her next appointment.

"Moving on," I said, hitting the button for line one. I could hear Mrs. Baker panting before I even started talking. "Let's see, I could squeeze you in at three-thirty, but you have to be here right on the dot, because Amanda's got a firm four-o'clock."

"Three thirty?" Mrs. Baker said. "Well, you see, earlier would be better, actually, because I have this…"

"Three-thirty," I repeated, clipping my vowels. "Take it or leave it."

There was a pause, some anxious breathing, and then she said, "I'll be there."

"Okay. We'll see you then."

As I hung up the phone, penciling her in, Talinga looked at me and said, "Draco, you are such a hard ass."

I shrugged. The truth was, I could deal with these women because most of them had that used to having everything me me mentality, in which I was well versed because of my mum. They wanted to bend the rules, to get things for free, to run into other people's appointments and still have everyone love them just _so_ much. So I was good at this job, if only because I had a lifetime of previous experience.

In the next hour I got the two women waiting on their manicures, ordered lunch for Lola, did the receipts from the day before, and between two eyebrow waxings and an underarm job I heard every gory detail about Talinga's most recent disastrous blind date. By two o'clock, things had slowed down a bit, and I was just sitting there at the desk, drinking a Diet Coke and staring out at the parking lot.

Joie was located in a glorified strip mall called Mayor's Village. It was all concrete, right on the highway, but there were some nice landscaped trees and a fountain to make it look more upscale. To our right was Mayor's Market, which sold expensive organic food. There was also a Jump Java, the coffee place, as well as a video store, a bank, and a one-hour photo.

As I was staring out, I saw a beat up white van pull into the parking lot, taking a space by Gone to the birds, the specialty bird feeder store. The front and side doors of the van opened and three guys got out, all about my age, all dressed in dress shirts and ties and jeans. They huddled for a second, discussing something then split up, and each heading into a different store. A short guy with red curly hair came towards us, tucking in his shirt, as he got close.

"Oh, Boy," I said. 'Here come the Mormons." Although we had a very nice sign in the window that read _PLEASE NO SOLICITING_, I always had to chase away people selling candy or Bibles. I took a sip of my Diet Coke, readying myself as the door chime clanged and he came in.

"Hello," he said, walking right up. He was mighty freckled, which I guess a lot of redheaded guys are, but his eyes were a nice deep green and he had a decent smile. His dress shirt, upon closer inspection, had a stain on the pocket, however, and looked decidedly thrift store esque. Plus, the tie was a clip on. I mean, it was so obvious.

"Hello," I said, "Can I help you?"

"I was wondering if perhaps you were hiring?"

I looked at him. No men worked at Joie: besides me. We'd had one male stylist, Eric, but he jumped to Sunset Salon, our biggest competition, earlier in the year, taking one of our best manicurists with him. Since then it was all estrogen plus me.

"Nope," I said. "We're not."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

He didn't seem convinced, but he was still smiling. "I wonder," he said, all charming, "if perhaps I could fill out an application in case an opening became available."

"Sure," I said, pulling open the bottom drawer of the desk, where we kept the pad of applications. I ripped one off, handed it to him, along with one of my pens.

"Thanks so much," he said, taking a seat in the corner by the window. I watched from where I was as he wrote his name across the top in neat block letters, and then wrinkled his brow, contemplating the questions.

"Draco," Lola called out, walking into the waiting area, "did we ever get that shipment from Redken?"

"Not yet," I told her. Lola was a big woman who wore tight bright clothes. She had a huge laugh to match her huge frame and inspired such a respect and fear in her clients that one even came in with a picture or anything when they had a hair appointment: they just let her decide. Now, she glanced over at the guy in the corner.

"Why are you here?" she asked him.

He looked up, hardly startled. I had to admire that. "Applying for a job," he told her.

She looked at him up and down. "Is that a clip on tie?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, nodding at her. "It sure is."

Lola looked at me, then back at him, then burst into laughter. "Oh, Lord, look at this boy. And you want to work for me?"

"Yes, ma'am, I sure do." He was so polite I could see him gaining points, quickly. Lola was big on respect.

"Can you give a manicure?"

He considered this, "No. I'm a fast learner though."

"Can you bikini wax?"

"No."

"Cut hair?"

"No, I sure can't."

She cocked her head to the side, smiling at him. "Honey," he said finally, "you're useless."

He nodded. "My mother always said that," he told her. "But I'm in this band and we all have to get jobs today, so I'm trying anything."

Lola laughed again. It sounded like it came all the way from her stomach, bubbling up. "You're in a band?"

"Yes, ma'am. We just came down from Virginia, for the summer. And we all have to get day jobs, so we came here and split up."

"What do you play?" Lola asked.

"Drums," he said.

"Like Ringo?"

"Exactly." He grinned, and then added in a lower voice, "You know they always put the redheaded guy in the back. Otherwise all the ladies would be on me."

Lola exploded in laughter, so loudly that Talinga and one of the manicurists, Amanda, poked their heads around the corner.

"What in the world?" Amanda asked.

"Good God, is that a clip on tie?" Talinga asked.

"Look," Lola said, catching her breath, "we've got nothing for you here. But you come down to the coffee place with me and I'll get you a job. That girl owes me a favour."

"Really?"

She nodded. "But come on. I don't have all day."

He leapt up, the pen he was holding clattering to the floor. He bent down to get it, then brought the application back to me. "Thanks anyway," he said.

"No problem."

"Let's go, Ringo!" Lola yelled from the door.

He jumped, grinning, and then leaned a little closer and said to me, "You know, he's still talking about you."

"Who is?"

"Harry"

Of course, just my luck. He's not just in a band; he's in **that** band. "Why?" I said. "He doesn't even know me."

"Doesn't matter," he said, shrugging. "You're officially a challenge. He'll never give up now."

I just sat there, shaking my head. Ridiculous.

He didn't seem to notice, instead just patted his hand on the desk, as if we'd made a deal or something, before walking over to Lola.

Once they'd left, Talinga looked at me and said, "You know him?"

"No," I said grabbing the phone as it rang again. Small word, small town. It was just a coincidence. "I don't."

In the week since Jonathan and I had split, I'd hardly thought about him or Dexter the musician or anything else other than my mother's wedding. It was a distraction I needed, not that I'd ever have admitted it aloud.

Jonathan had called a bunch, at first, but after a while he just stopped, knowing I'd never get back to him. Blaise pointed out that I'd gotten what I wanted, really: my freedom. Just not exactly the way I wanted it. But it still burned at me that I'd been cheated on. It was the kind of thing that woke me up at night, pissed, unable to remember anything I'd been dreaming.

Luckily, I had Pansy to deal with too. She'd spent the last week completely in denial; sure Adam would change his mind. It was all we could do to thwart her calling/driving by/going to his work impulse, which we all knew never led to any good in a dumping situation. If he wanted to see her, he'd find her. If he wanted to get back together, she would make him work for it. And so on.

And now, the wedding was here. I got off work early, at five, and drove home to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. As I walked up to the front door, I realised the house was just as I'd left it. In chaos.

"But there's no way they'll get here in time!" my mother was shrieking as I walked in and dropped my keys on the table. "They're supposed to be here in an hour or we won't be able to make the dinner!"

"Mum," I called out, instantly recognizing her close to meltdown voice. "Calm down."

"I understand that," she said, her voice still shrill. "But this is my wedding!"

I glanced into the living room, which was empty except for Jennifer Anne, already dressed for dinner, sitting on the couch reading a book entitled _Making plans, Making dreams, which_ had a picture of a woman looking pensive on its cover. She glanced up at me, turning the page.

"Whats going on?" I asked.

"The limo service is having some problems," she fluffed her hair. "It seems one of their cars was in an accident and the other is stuck in traffic."

"That's just not acceptable!" my mum yelled.

"Where's Chris?"

She looked up at the ceiling. "In his room," she said. "Apparently, there's been some sort of hatching." Then she made a face and went back to her book.

My brother bred lizards. Upstairs, next to his room in what had once been a walk in closet, he kept a row of aquariums in which he raised monitor lizards. They were hard to describe: smaller than iguanas, bigger than geckos. They had snakelike tongues and ate tiny crickets that were forever getting loose in the house, bouncing down the stairs and chirping from where they hid in shoes in the closet. When he had eggs in it, it rain cycles all day, softly clicking to maintain the temperatures needed to bring the babies to maturity.

Jennifer Anne hated the lizards. They were, in fact, the one sticking point of her transformation of Chris, the one thing he would not give up for her. As a result, she refused to anywhere near his room, instead spending her time at our house on the couch, or at the kitchen table, usually reading some motivational self-help book and sighing loud enough for everyone, except Chris, who was usually upstairs, tending to his animals to hear her.

But now, I had bigger problems.

"I understand that," my mother said, her voice now wavering close to tears, "but what you're not hearing is that I have a hundred people that are going to be waiting for at the Hilton and I will not _be_ there!"

"Whoa, Whoa, Whoa," I said, coming up behind her and gently closing my hand over the phone. "Mum. Let me talk to them."

"It's just ludicrous!" she sputtered, but she let me take it, "It's…"

"Mum," I said quietly, "Go finish getting dressed. I'll handle this. Okay?"

She just stood there for a second, blinking. She already had on her dress and was carrying her pantyhose in her hand. No makeup, no jewelry. Which meant another good twenty-five minutes if we were lucky.

"Well, okay," she said, as if she were doing me a favour. "I'll be upstairs."

"Right." I watched her as she walked out of the room, brushing her fingers through her hair. When she was gone, I put the phone to my ear. "Is this Albert?"

"No," the voice said, warily. "This is Thomas."

"Is Albert there?"

"Hold on." There was a muffled noise, someone's hand covering the receiver. Then, "Hello this is Albert speaking."

"Albert, This is Draco Malfoy."

"Hey, Draco! Look, this thing with the cars is just messed up, okay?"

"My mother is approaching meltdown, Albert."

"I know, I know. But look, this is what Thomas was trying to tell her. What we'll do is…"

Five minutes later, I went up the stairs and knocked on my mother's door. When I came in, she was sitting in front of her vanity. She looked no different except that she had changed her dress and now sat dabbing at her face with a make up brush. Ah, progress.

"All fixed," I told her. "A car will be here at six. It's a town car, not a limo, but we're set for tomorrow and that's what really matters. Okay?"

She sighed, placing one hand over her chest, as if this, finally, calmed her racing heart. 'Wonderful. Thank you."

I sat down on her bed, kicking off my shoes, and glanced at the clock. It was five-fifteen. I could be ready in eighteen minutes flat, including drying my hair, so I lay back and close my eyes. I could hear my mother making her getting ready noises: perfume bottles clinking, brushes dabbing, small containers of face cream and eye gel being moved around on the mirrored tabletop in front of her. My mother was a glamorous long before she had reason to be. She'd always been small and wiry, full of energy and prone to dramatic outbursts: she liked to wear lots of bangle bracelets that clanked as she waved her arms around, sweeping the air as she talked. Even when she taught at the community college and most of her students were half asleep after working full days, she dressed for class, with full make up and perfume and her trademark swishy outfits in bright colours. She kept her hair dyed light blonde now that it was graying, and wore it in a short, blunt cut with thick bangs cut straight across. With her long flowing skirts and the hair she almost could have been a geisha, except that was way too noisy.

"Draco, honey," she said suddenly, and I jerked up, realizing I'd almost fallen asleep. "Can you come do my clasp?"

I stood up and walked over to where she was sitting, taking the necklace she handed to me. "You look beautiful," I told her. It was true. Tonight, she was wearing a long red dress with a drop neckline, amethyst earrings, and the big diamond ring Don had given her. She smelled like L'Air de Temps, which, when I was little I thought was the most wonderful scent in the world. The whole house reeked of it: it clung to the drapes and rugs the way cigarette smoke does, stubbornly and forever.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said as I did the clasp. Looking at us reflected in the mirror I was struck again by how much we resembled each other. I didn't look like my father, I didn't have many early pictures of him, but in the ones I had seen he always looked grizzled, in that 1960s rock kind of way, with a beard and long hair. He also looked permanently stoned, which my mother never disputed when I pointed it out. _Oh but he had such a beautiful voice_, she'd say, now that he was gone. _One song and I was a goner._

I nodded.

"I mean," she said, turning around, "it's not like this is my first time going down the aisle."

"Nope," I agreed, smoothing her hair down where it was poking up slightly in the back.

"But it just feels real this time. Permanent. Don't you think?"

I knew what she wanted me to say, but still I hesitated. It seemed like a bad movie, this ritual we'd gone through twice already that I could remember. At this point, the other bridesmaids and myself considered the ceremonies more like class reunions, where we stood off to the side and discussed who had gotten fat or gone bald since my mother's last wedding. I had no illusions about love anymore. It came, it went, it left casualties or didn't. People weren't meant to be together forever, regardless of what songs say. I would have been doing her a favour dragging forth the other wedding albums she kept stacked under her bed and pointing at the pictures, forcing her to take in the same things, the same people, the same cake/champagne toast/first dance poses we'd been seeing again in the next forty-eight hours. Maybe she could forget, push those husbands and memories out of sight and out of mind. But I couldn't.

She was still smiling at me in the mirror. Sometimes I thought if she could read my mind it would kill her. Or both of us.

"Different," she said, convincing herself. "It's different this time."

"Sure, Mum," I said, putting my hands on her shoulders. They felt small to me, somehow, from where I stood. "Sure it is."

On my way down to my room, Chris jumped out at me.

"Draco! You've got to see this."

I glanced at my watch, five thirty, and then followed him into the lizard room. It was cramped, and he had to keep it hot all the time, which made being in there feel like a really long elevator ride to nowhere.

"Look," he said, grabbing my hand and yanking me down beside him, next to he incubator. The top was off and inside there was a small Tupperware container, filled with what looked like moss. On top of it were three little eggs. One was broken open, one kind of mashed, and the other had a tiny little hole in the top.

"Check it out," Chris whispered, and pointed at the one with the hole."

"Chris," I said, looking at my watch again. "I haven't even taken a shower yet."

"Just wait," he told me, poking at the egg again. "This is worth it."

We crouched there, together. My head was starting to hurt from the heat. And then, just as I was about to get up, the egg stirred. It wobbled a bit, and then something poked out of the hole. A tiny little head, as the egg tore, it was followed by a body. It was slippery and slimy and so small it could have fit on the tip of my finger.

"Varanus tristis orientalis," Chris said, as if he was casting a spell. "Freckled monitor. He's the only one that survived."

The little lizard still seemed a bit dazed, blinking its eyes and moving in a stuttered kind of way, jerkily. Chris was beaming, as if he'd just single handedly created the universe.

"Pretty cool, huh?" he said as the lizard moved again on his tiny webbed feet. "We're the first he's ever seen."

The lizard stared up at us, and we stared back, taking each other in. He was little and defenseless, I felt sorry for him already. This was a screwed up place he'd just come into. But he didn't have to know that. Not yet, anyway. There in that room, where it was hot and cramped, the world probably still seemed small enough to manage.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Not my idea/story. Also, the characters do not belong to me.**

**I'd like to thank my beta, **xSoThisIsLOVEx.

**Chapter 4**

"And finally, please lift your glasses and toast Narcissa's son, Draco, who planned and organised this entire event. We couldn't have done it without him! To Draco!"

"To Draco!" everyone echoed, glancing at me before sucking down more champagne.

"And now," my mother said, smiling at Severus, who hadn't stopped grinning since the organist had started the "Prelude" for the ceremony two hours earlier, "please, enjoy yourselves!"

The string quartet began playing, my mother and Severus kissed, and finally I let out a breath. The salads had been served, everyone seated. Cake: check. Table counter pieces: check. Bartender and liquor: check. This and a million other details completed meant that now, after six months, two days, and approximately four hours, I could relax. At least for a few minutes…

"Okay," I said to Blaise, "_now_ I'll have some champagne."

"Finally!" he said, pushing a glass at me. He and Pansy tipsy, red faced and giggly enough to have attracted attention to our table more than once already, embarrassing me. Jennifer Anne, who was sitting on my left with Chris, was drinking seltzer water and watching us, a pinched look on her face.

"Great job, Draco," Chris said, spearing a tomato from his salad and stuffing it in his mouth. "You really made this a good day for Mum."

"After this," I told him, "she's on her own. Next time, she can go to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator. I'm out."

Jennifer Anne opened let her mouth drop open. "Next time?" she said, shocked. Then she looked over at my mother and Severus, who were now at the head table, managing to eat and hold hands concurrently. "Draco, this is _marriage_. In front of God. It's forever."

"Oh my god," she said as Blaise began snorting with laughter, "Excuse me."

Jennifer Anne rolled her eyes, clearly offended at sharing a table with a bunch of peons and cynics. "Christopher," she said and she was the only one who ever called him that, "let's get some air."

"But I'm eating my salad," Chris said. He had dressing on his chin.

Jennifer Anne just picked up her napkin, folding it delicately. She'd finished her salad already and left her utensils in that neat cross in the middle, signaling to the server that she was done.

"Sure," Chris said, standing up. "Air. Let's go."

Once they were gone, Blaise hopped over two seas, with Pansy following along behind him clumsily. Greg was missing, having had to stay home with his little brother when he came down with a sudden case of strep throat. Quiet as he was, I always felt things were out of balance when he wasn't around, as if Pansy and Blaise were too much for me to handle alone.

"Man," Pansy said as Jennifer Anne led Chris out into the lobby, talking the whole way, "she hates us."

"No," I said, taking another gulp of my champagne, "she just hates me."

"Oh, stop," Blaise, said, picking through his salad.

"Why would she hate you?" Pansy asked as she tipped up her glass again. Her lipstick smudged, but in a cute way.

"Because she thinks I'm a bad person," I told her. "I go against everything she believes in."

"But that's not true!" she said, offended. "You're a _wonderful _person, Draco."

Blaise snorted. "Now, let's not get crazy."

"She is!" Pansy said, loud enough so that a couple of people at the next table, Seversus' dealership coworkers, glanced over at us.

"I'm not wonderful," I said, squeezing Pansy's arm. "But I am a bit better than I used to be."

"That," Blaise said, tossing his napkin down onto his plate, "I can agree with. I mean, you don't smoke anymore."

"Right," I agreed. "And I hardly get falling down drunk at all."

Pansy nodded. "That's true too."

"And finally," I said, finishing my drink. "I don't sleep around _nearly_ as much as I used to."

"Here, here," Blaise said, lifting up his class so I could tap mine against it. "Watch out, Stanford," he said, smiling at me. "Draco's practically a saint now."

"St. Draco," I said, trying it out. "I think I like that."

The dinner was good. No one else seemed to think the chicken was a little rubbery besides me, but then I'd lobbied hard for beef and lost, so I might have just been sore. Jennifer Anne and Chris never returned to our table; later, on my way to the rest room, I saw they'd defected to one where I'd put several of the local bigwigs Severus was friendly with from the chamber of commerce. Jennifer Anne was talking away to the town manager, waving her fork as she made a point, while Chris sat beside her, a stain now on his tie, shoveling food in his mouth. When he saw me he smiled, apologetically, and just shrugged, as if this, like so many other things, was completely out of his hands.

Meanwhile, at our table, the champagne was flowing. One of Severus' nephews, who went to Princeton, was busy hitting on Blaise, while Pansy, in the ten minutes I'd been gone, had crossed over happily buzzing to completely maudlin, and was now well on her way to flat-out weepy drunk.

"The thing is," she said, leaning into me, "I really thought that Adam and I would get married. I mean, I did."

"I know," I said, feeling relieved as I saw Greg, in one of his few tuxes, heading toward us. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did in anything but jeans, as he sat down he made a face.

"Tie," he grumbled. "Stupid thing cost me four bucks and it feels like it's choking me."

"Well, if it isn't Gregory," Blaise said, his voice high and giggly. "Don't you own any tuxes from this decade?"

"Bite me," Gregory told him, and Seversus' Nephew raised his eyebrows. Blaise, hardly bothered, bit the air in front of him.

"Greg," Pansy whispered, falling off my shoulder and onto his, her head nudging Greg's ear, "I'm drunk."

"I see that," Greg said flatly, pushing her back to me. "Gosh, he said brightly, "I'm so glad I came!"

"Don't be like that," I told him. "Are you hungry?"

"I had some tuna fish at home," he said, squinting at the centerpiece.

"Stay here." I stood up, easing Pansy back against her own chair. "I'll be right back."

I was just on my way to the table, plate of chicken and asparagus and pilaf in hand, when I heard the microphone up front crackle, a few guitar chords jangling behind it.

"Hi everyone," a voice said as I ducked between two tables sidestepping a server clearing plates, "we're the G flats, and we'd like to wish Severus and Narcissa the best of happiness together!"

As everyone applauded this, I stopped where I was standing then turned my head. Severus had insisted on handling the band, claiming he knew someone who owed him a favour. But now, I wished more than anything that I'd just hired the local Motown group, even if they had played two of my mother's previous receptions.

Because of course it was Harry, the musician boy, standing in front of the microphone in a black suit that looked a size too big. He said, "What do you say, folks? Let's get this party going!"

"Oh, my God," I said, as the band, a guitar player, someone on keyboards, and in the back the red-haired Ringo I'd met the day before, bursting into a rousing rendition of "Get ready." They were all wearing thrift shop suits, Ringo in the same clip on tie. But already people were crowding onto the dance floor, shuffling and shimmying, my mother and Severus in the middle of it all, whopping it up.

I went back to the table and gave Greg his plate, then flopped down into my seat. Pansy, as I expected, was now teary-eyed, dabbing at her face with a napkin while Greg patted her leg, mechanically, and Blaise and the nephew were gone.

"I don't believe this," I said.

"Believe what?" Greg asked, picking up his fork. "Man, this smells _great_."

"The band…" I began, but that was as far as I got before Jennifer Anne appeared beside me, Chris in tow.

"Mom's asking for you," Chris said.

"What?"

"You're supposed to be dancing," Jennifer Anne, queen of etiquette, informed me, gently nudging me out of my seat. "The rest of the wedding party is already up there."

"Oh, come on," I said, looking at the dance floor, where of course my mother was now staring right at me, smiling beautifully and waggling her fingers in that come here now kind of way. So I grabbed Pansy up with one arm, damned if I was going out there alone, and dragged her with me, through the maze of tables, and into the crowd.

"I don't feel like dancing," she sniffled.

"Neither do I," I snapped.

"Oh, Draco, Pansy!" my mother shrieked as we came closer, reaching out her arms to pull us both in close. Her skin was warm, the fabric of her dress slippery and smooth as she brushed against me. "Isn't this just so fun?"

We were right in the middle of the crowd, people dancing all around us. The band segued cleanly into "Shout", accompanied by a whoop from someone behind me. Severus, who had been dipping my mother wildly, now grabbed my arm and spun me out, hurling me into a couple doing the bump. I almost felt my arm disconnect from my body before he yanked me back, gyrating his pelvis wildly.

"Oh, Lord," Pansy said from behind me, having seen this. But then I was flying out again, this time in the opposite direction. Severus had danced with such vigor I feared for the rest of us. I kept trying to send him back to my mother, but she was distracted dancing with one of Severus' nephews.

"Help me," I hissed at Pansy as I whizzed past her, Severus' hand still clamping my wrist. Then he pulled me close for a weird, jitterbug kind of happing that made my teeth knock together, but not enough to distract me from seeing Blaise, who was standing off to the side of the dance floor, laughing hysterically.

"You're a great dancer!" Severus said, pulling me in close and dipping me wildly. I was sure my back would break soon, but then he pulled me back up, lickety split, and I got a mean head rush. "I love to dance," Severus yelled at me, throwing me out into another spin. "I don't get to do it enough!"

"I think you do," I grumbled, as the song finally began to wind down.

"What's that?" he said, cupping his hand over his ear.

"I said," I told him, "that you can really move."

He laughed, wiping his face. "You too," he said, as the band finished with the crashing of cymbals. "You too."

I escaped as everyone was applauding, pushing my way to the bar, where my mother was standing nibbling on a piece of bread, alone for once.

"What was that?" he said, laughing. "God, it looked like some wild tribal ritual."

"Shut up," I said.

"And now, folks," I heard Harry say from the stage as the light dimmed a bit, "for your listening pleasure… a little slow song."

The opening strains of "Our love is here to say" began, a bit clumsily, and people who'd been avoiding the dance floor during the faster numbers started getting up from their chairs and pairing off. Jennifer Anne appeared next to me, smelling of hand soap, and slid her fingers over Chris'; dislodging the bread he was holding.

"Come on," she murmured, tactfully dropping the bread onto a nearby table. Whatever I felt for her personally, I had to admire her technique. Nothing stopped this girl. "Let's dance."

"Absolutely," Chris agreed, and wiped his mouth as he followed her, glancing back as they reached the floor. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Fine," I said. The room had grown quieter as the music did, people's voices more hushed as they moved together, cheek to cheek. Onstage, Harry sang on while the keyboardist looked bored, glancing at his watch. I could relate.

What was it about slow dancing, anyway? Even in junior high I'd hated the moment the music stalled, screeching to a halt so that someone could press his or her sweaty body to yours. At least with real dancing you weren't trapped, forced to rock back and forth with a total stranger who now, simply because of proximity, felt it was perfectly all right to grab your ass and anything else within reach. What a bunch of crap.

And it was crap. Totally. Because all slow dancing was really only about getting close to someone you wanted close or being forced to be close to someone you wished was far, far away. Okay, so my bother and Jennifer Anne looked totally smitten, and yeah, okay, the words to the song were nice and romantic. I mean, it wasn't a bad song or anything. It just wasn't my thing.

I grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray, taking a sip and wincing as the bubbles worked their way up my nose. I was fighting off a coughing fit when I felt someone come up beside me. I glanced over to see a girl who worked with Severus; her name was Marty, Or Patty, something with a middle t. She had long, permed hair, big bangs, and was wearing too much perfume. She smiled at me.

"I love this song," she said, taking a sip of her drink and sighing. "Don't you?"

I shrugged. "I guess," I said as Harry leaned into the microphone, closing his eyes.

"They look so happy," she went on, and I followed her gaze to my mother and Severus, who were laughing and doing dips as the song wound down. She sniffled, and I realised she was near tears. How weird those weddings do that to some people. "He's really happy, isn't he?"

"Yeah," I said. "He is."

She wiped her eyes, and then waved her hand at me apologetically, shaking her head. "Oh, dear," she said. "Forgive me, I just…"

"I know," I said, if only to save her from whatever she was about to say. I'd had all the sentimental stuff I could handle for one day.

Finally the last verse came to an end. Marty/Patty look a deep breath, blinking as the lights came up again. Under closer scrutiny, I could see she was actually crying: red eyes, face red, the whole deal. Her mascara, which I could not help but notice was applied a bit too plentifully, was beginning to streak.

"I should…" she said shakily, touching her face. "I need to freshen up."

"Good to see you," I told her, the same way I'd told everyone who I was forced to talk to all night long, in the same cheery hey wedding voice.

"You, too," she said, with less enthusiasm, and then she was gone, bumping against a chair on her way out.

Enough, I thought. I need a break.

I walked past the cake table and out a side door to the parking lot, where a couple of guys in waiter's jackets were smoking cigarettes and picking at some leftover cheese puffs.

"Hey," I said to them, "can I bum one?"

"Sure." The taller guy, whose hair was kind of model-poofy, shook a cigarette out of his pack, handing it to me. He pulled out a lighter and held it for me as I leaned into it, taking a few puffs. He lowered his voice and said, "What's your name?"

"Blaise," I said, pulling back from him. "Thanks." I eased away around the corner, even as he was calling after me, finding a spot by the Dumpsters on the wall. I kicked off my shoes, and then looked down at the cigarette in my hand. I'd done so well: eighteen days. It didn't even taste that good, really. Just a weak crutch on a bad night. So I tossed it down, watching it smolder, and leaned back on my palms, stretching out my back.

Inside, the band stopped playing, to scattered applause. Then the canned hotel music came on, and a few seconds later a door farther down the wall banged open and out came the G flats, their voices loud.

"This is of the suck," the guitar player said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shaking one out. "After this, no more weddings. I'm serious."

"It's money," Ringo the drummer said, taking a sip of bottled water he was holding.

"Not this one," the keyboard guy muttered. "This is a gimme."

"No," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "This is bail money. Or have we all forgotten that? We owed Severus, remember?"

There was a grumbling acquiescence, followed by silence. "I hate doing covers," the guitarist said finally. "I don't see why we can't do our stuff."

"For this crowd?" Harry said. "Be serious. I don't think Uncle Miltie from Saginaw wants to dance to your various version of the Potato song."

"It's not called that," Dean snapped. "And you know it."

"Settle," the redheaded drummer said, waving his arms in a peacemaking gesture I recognised. "It's only a couple more hours, okay? Let's just make the best of it. At least we get to eat."

"We get to eat?" the keyboardist said, perking up. "Seriously?"

"That's what Severus said," the drummer replied. "If there's enough left over. How much longer of a break do we have?"

Harry glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes."

The keyboardist looked at the drummer, then the guitarist. "I say food. Food?"

"Food," they replied in unison. They keyboardist said, "You in, Harry?"

"Nah. Just grab me some bread or something."

"Okay, Gandhi," Ringo said, and somebody snorted. 'We'll see you in there."

The guitarist tossed down his cigarette, Ringo threw his water bottle toward the dumpster, and missed, and then went inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

I sat there, watching him, instead of sitting there on the wall, drumming his fingers. I'd always been a sucker for dark-headed boys, and from a distance his suit didn't look so tacky: he was almost cute. And tall. Tall was good.

I stood up and brushed my hands through my hair. Okay, so maybe he was really annoying. And I hated the way he'd bumped me against the wall. But I was here now, and it seemed only fitting that I take the first steps towards him, show myself, if only to throw him off a bit.

I was about to come around the dumpster and into full sight when the door opened again and two girls, daughters of some cousin of Severus', came out. They were younger than me, by a couple of years, and lived in Ohio.

"I told you he'd be out here!" one of them, the blond, said to the other. Then they both giggled. The taller one was hanging back, hand on the door, but her sister walked right up, plopping down beside Harry. "We were looking for you."

"Really," Harry said, and smiling politely. "Well, hello."

"Hello yourself," the blonde said, and I made a face in the dark. "You got a cigarette?"

Harry patted his pockets. "Nope," he said. "Don't smoke."

"No way!" the blonde said, hitting him in the leg. "I thought all guys in bands smoked." The taller girl, still by the door, glanced back behind her, her face nervous. "I smoke," the blond said, "But my mother would kill me if she knew. Kill me."

"Hmm," Harry replied, as if this was actually interesting.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" the blonde said abruptly.

"Meghan!" the other girl hissed. "God!"

"I'm just asking," Meghan said, sliding a little closer to Harry. "It's just a question."

"Well," Harry said, "actually…"

And at that, I turned around and headed back the way I'd come, already pissed at myself. I'd come close to doing something really stupid, way lowering my standards, which judging by Jonathan were rock bottom already. This was the way the old me worked, living just for the next second, hour, waiting only to have a boy want me for a night, no more. I'd changed. I'd quit that, along with smoking, okay, with one lapse, and drinking, for the most part. But the sleeping around thing that I'd held true to. Completely. I'd been ready to throw it away, or at least bend it a bit, for a Frank Sinatra wanna be who would have easily settled for Meghan from Ohio. God.

Back inside, the cake was out on the dance floor, with my mother and Severus posing beside it, their hands intertwined over the cake knife as the photographer moved all around them, flash popping. I stood on the edge of the crowd, watching as Severus fed my mother a piece, carefully easing it into her mouth. Another flash popped, capturing the moment. Ah, love.

The rest of the night went pretty much as I expected. My mother and Severus left in a shower of birdseed and bubbles (with much of the hotel cleaning staff standing by looking hostile), Blaise ended up making out with Severus' nephew in the lobby, and Greg and I got stuck in the bathroom, holding Pansy's head while she alternately puked up her fifteen-dollar-ahead of time dinner and moaned about Adam.

"Don't you just love weddings?" Greg asked me, passing over another wad of wet paper towels, which I pressed against Pansy's forehead as she stood up.

"I do," Pansy wailed, missing the sarcasm. She patted the towels to her face. "I really, really, do."

Greg rolled his eyes at me, but I just shook my head as I led Pansy out of the stall and to the sinks. She looked in the mirror at herself, smeared make up, hair wild and curly, dress with a questionable brown stain on the sleeve, and sniffled. "This has to be the worst time of my life," she moaned, blinking at herself.

"Now, now," I told her, taking her hand, "you'll feel better tomorrow."

"No, you won't," Greg said, getting the door. "Tomorrow, you'll have a wicked hangover and feel even worse."

"Greg," I said.

"But the next day," he went on, patting Pansy's shoulder, "the next day you'll feel much better. You'll see."

So we were a bedraggled bunch as we made our way out into the lobby, with Pansy held up between us. It was one in the morning, my hair was flat, and my feet hurt. The end of a wedding reception is always so god dam depressing, I thought to myself. And only the bride and groom are spared, jetting off into the sunset while the rest of us wake up the next morning to just another day.

"Where's Blaise?" I asked Greg as we struggled through the revolving doors. Pansy was already falling asleep, even as her feet were moving.

"No idea. Last I saw him he was all over what's his bucket back there by the piano."

I glanced behind me into the lobby, but no Blaise. He always seemed to be elsewhere when anyone else was puking. It was like he had a sixth sense or something.

"He's a big boy," Greg told me. "He'll be fine."

We were hoisting Pansy into Greg's front seat when there was a rattling noise, and the white van I now recognised as belonging to Harry's band pulled up in front of the hotel. The back doors popped open and out jumped Ringo, now without the clip on tie, with the guitarist hopping out from the driver's seat and following him. Then they disappeared inside, leaving the engine running.

"You need a ride?" Greg asked me.

"Nope. Chris is in there waiting for me." I shut the door, closing Pansy in. "Thanks for this."

"No problem." He pulled his keys out of his pocket, jangling them. "It went okay, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "It's over," I said. "That's all that matters."

As he drove off, beeping the horn once, I started back to the hotel to find my brother. When I passed the white van, Ringo and the keyboardist were coming back out, hauling equipment and bickering.

"Dean never helps," the keyboardist said, hoisting some big speaker into the back of the van, where it landed with a crash. "This vanishing act is getting old, you know?"

"Let's just get out of here," Ringo replied. "Where's Harry?"

"They get five minutes," the keyboardist said. "Then they can walk." Then he reached into the open driver's side window and planted his palm on the horn, letting it blare out, loud, for a good five seconds.

"Oh, good," Ringo said sarcastically. "That'll go over well."

A few seconds later the guitarist, the elusive Dean, came out the revolving doors, looking irritated.

"Nice," he yelled, coming around the van. "Real classy."

"Get in or walk home," the keyboardist snapped. "I mean it."

Dean got in, the horn sounded one more time, and they waited. No Harry. Finally, after what seemed like a bit of bickering from the front seats, the van chugged away, taking a right onto the main road. The turn signal, of course, was busted.

Back in the hotel, the cleaning crew was at work on the reception hall, clearing glasses and pulling off tablecloths. My mother's bouquet, eighty bucks of flowers, sat abandoned on a tray table, still as fresh as when she'd first picked it up at the church over nine hours earlier.

"They left you," I heard someone say. I turned around. Harry. God help me. He was sitting at a table next to the ice sculpture; two swans intertwined and quickly melted, a plate in front of him.

"Who did?" I asked.

"Chris and Jennifer Anne," he replied, as if he'd known them forever. Then he picked up a fork, taking a bite of whatever he was having. It looked like wedding cake, from where I was.

"What?" I said. "They left?"

"They were tired." He chewed for a second, and then swallowed. "Jennifer Anne said she had to go because she had an early seminar tomorrow at the convention center, something about achievement. She's very bright, that girl. She thinks I might have a future in the corporate and private leisure activity sector. Whatever that means."

I just looked at him.

"Anyway," he went on. "I said it was fine, because when you showed up we'd just give you a ride."

"We," I repeated.

"Me and the guys."

I considered this. And I'd been so close to being scot-free, home by now care of Greg. Great. "They're gone too," I said finally.

He looked up, fork midway to his mouth. "They what?"

"They left," I repeated slowly. "They beeped the horn first."

"Oh, man, I _thought_ I heard the horn," he said, shaking his head. "Typical."

I looked around the mostly empty room, as if a solution to this and all my other problems might be lurking behind, say, a potted plant. No luck. So I did what seemed, by now, inevitable. I walked over to the table where he was sitting, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

"Ah," he said, with a smile. "Finally, he comes around."

"Don't get too excited," I said, dropping my shoes onto the table. I felt tired in every part of my body, as if I'd been stretched thin. "I'm just getting the energy up to call a cab."

"You should try some of this cake first." He pushed the plate at me. "Here."

"I don't want cake."

"It's really good. It doesn't taste chalky at all."

"I'm sure it doesn't," I said, "But I'm fine."

"You probably didn't even get any, right?" He wiggled the fork at me. "Just try it."

"No," I said flatly.

"Come on."

"No."

"Mmm." He poked at it with a fork, gently. "So tasty."

"You," I said finally, "are _really_ pissing me off."

He shrugged, as if he'd heard this before, and then pulled the plate back toward himself, dipping the fork in for another bite. The cleaning crew was chattering away in the front of the room, stacking chairs. One woman with her hair in a long braid picked up my mother's bouquet, cradling it in her arms.

"Da da da dum," she said, and laughed when one of her coworkers yelled at her to stop dreaming and get back to work.

Harry put down the fork, the tasty non-chalklike cake gone, and pushed the plate away. "So," he said, looking at me, "this your mum's first remarriage?"

"Fourth," I said. "She's made a career out of it."

"Got you beat," he told me. "My uncle is on his fifth."

I had to admit, I was impressed. So far I'd never met anyone who had more ex-steps than me. "Really."

He nodded. "But you know," he said sarcastically, "I really think _this_ one's going to last."

"Hope springs eternal."

He sighed. "Especially in my uncle's house."

"Harry, honey," someone called out from behind me, "did you get enough to eat?"

He sat up, and then he raised his voice and said, "Yes, ma'am, I sure did. Thank you."

"There's a bit more of this chicken dish left."

"No, Linda. I'm full, really."

"Okay then."

I looked at him. "Do you know _everybody_?"

He shrugged. "Not everybody," he said. "I just bond easily. It's part of the whole repeating family members thing. It makes you more mellow."

"Yeah, right," I said.

"Because you have to just go with the flow. Your life is not your own, with people coming in and out all the time. You get mellow because you have to. I mean, you know exactly what I'm saying, I bet."

"Oh, yes," I said flatly. "I am just so easygoing. That is precisely the word that describes me."

"Isn't it?"

"No," I told him. "It isn't." And then I stood up and got my shoes, feeling my feet ache as they settled into my shoes. "I have to go home now."

He got to his feet, taking his jacket off the back of the chair. "Share a cab?"

"I don't think so."

"All right," he said, shrugging. "Suit yourself."

I walked to the door, thinking he'd be behind me, but when I glanced back he was across the room, going out the other way. I had to admit I was surprised, after such intense pursuit, that he had give up already. The drummer had been right, I supposed. The conquest, getting me alone, was all that mattered, and once he saw me up close I wasn't so special after all. But I, of course, knew that already.

There was a cab parked out front, the driver dozing. I climbed into the backseat, sliding off my shoes again. It was, by the green numbers on the dashboard, exactly 2 A.M. At the Thunderbird Hotel across town, my mother was most likely fast asleep, dreaming of the next week she'd spend in St. Bart's. She'd come home to finish her novel, to move her new husband into the house, to take another stab at being Mrs. Somebody, sure that this time, indeed, it would be different.

As the cab turned onto the main road, I saw a glint of something through the park, over to my right. It was Harry, on foot, turning into a neighbourhood, and in his white shirt he stood out, almost as if he were glowing. He was walking down the middle of the street, the houses dark on either side of him, quiet in sleep. And watching him head home, for a second it was like he was the only one awake or even alive in the world right then, except for me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Disclaimer: Not my idea. **

**I'd like to thank my Beta: xSoThisIsLovex**

"Draco, really. He's just wonderful."

"Lola, please."

"I know what you're thinking. I do. But this is different. I wouldn't do you like that. Don't you trust me?"

I put down the stack of checks I'd been counting and looked up at her. She was leaning on her elbow, chin cupped in her hand. One of her earrings, a huge gold hoop, was swinging back and forth, catching the sunlight streaming through the front window.

"I don't do blind dates," I told her, again.

"It isn't blind, honey, I know him," she explained, as if this made some kind of difference. "A nice boy. He's got great hands too."

"What?" I said.

She held up her hands, impeccably manicured, naturally, as if I needed a visual aid for this basic part of human anatomy. "Hands. I noticed it the other day, when he came to pick his mother up from her seat salt scrub. Beautiful hands. He's bilingual."

I blinked, trying to process the connection between these two, characteristics. Nope. Nothing.

"Lola?" a voice called out tentatively from inside the salon, "my scalp is burning?"

"That's just the dye working, sugar," Lola called back, not even turning her head. "Anyway, Draco, I really talked you up. And since his mother is coming back this afternoon for her pedicure…"

"No," I said flatly. "Forget it."

"But he's perfect."

"Nobody," I told her, going back to the checks, "is perfect."

"Lola?" Now the voice sounded more nervous, less polite. "It's really hurting…"

"You want to find love, Draco?"

"No."

"I don't understand you, boy! You're about to make a big mistake." Lola always got loud when she felt passionate about something: now, her voice was booming around the small waiting room, rattling the sample nail polishes on the shelf above my head. A few more active vowels and I'd be concussed, and as quick to sue as the woman whose hair was burning off, ignored, in the next room.

"Lola!" The woman, now shrieking, sounded like she was on the verge of tears. "I think I smell burning hair…"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Lola bellowed, angry with both of us, and whirled around, stomping out of the room. As a purple nail polish crashed onto my desk, missing me by inches, I sighed, flipping open the calendar. It was Monday. My mother and Severus would be back from St. Bart's in three days. I turned another page, running my finger down past the days, to count again how many weeks I had before I left for school.

Stanford, three thousand miles away from here, almost a direct shot across the country. An incredible school, my top choice, and I'd been accepted by the five out of six schools I applied to. Finally it meant something.

Freshman year, when such decisions are made, my teachers had me pegged for the state party school, if I was lucky, someplace where I could do an easy major, like psych, with a minor in frat parties and make up. As if just because I was, okay, blonde and somewhat attractive with an active social life (and okay, not the best of reputations) and didn't do the student council/debate team/cheerleader thing, I was destined for the sub-par. Grouped with the burnouts and the barely graduating, where just making it down from the parking lot after lunch was far exceeding expectations.

But I'd proved them wrong. I used my own money to pay for a tutor in physics, the class that almost kissed me, as well as a prep class for SAT, which I took three times. I was the only one of my friends in AP classes except for Pansy, who as the daughter of two PhD's had always been expected to be brilliant. But I always worked harder when I was up against something, or when someone assumed I couldn't succeed. That's what drove me, all those nights studying. The fact that so many figured I couldn't do it.

I was the only one from our graduating class going to Stanford. Which meant I could begin my life again, fresh and new, so far from home. All the money I had left from my salon paycheck after my car payment I'd stuck in my savings account, to cover the dorm fees and books and living expenses. The tuition I'd gotten out of my part of the trust left to Chris and I in our father's estate. It had been set aside, by some lawyer who I wished I could thank personally, until we were twenty-five or for school, which meant that even during lean times my mother couldn't touch it. It also meant that no matter how she burned through her own money, my four years in college were safe. And all because each time "This lullaby" (written by Thomas Custer, all rights reserved) played in the background of a commercial, or on lite radio, or was performed by some lounge singer in Vegas, it bought me another day of my future.

The chimes over the door sounded and the UPS man came in carrying a box, which he put down on the desk in front of me. "Package for you, Draco," he said, whipping out his clipboard.

I signed on the screen, and then took the box. "Thanks, Jacob."

"Oh, and this too," he said, handing me an envelope. "See you tomorrow."

"Okay," I said. The envelope was stamped, weird, or sealed. I opened the flap and reached in, pulling out a stack of three pictures. They were all of the same couple, both in their seventies, probably, posing in some seaside setting. The man had on a baseball hat and a T-shirt that said "WILL GOLF FOR FOOD". The woman had a camera strapped to her belt and wearing sensible shoes. They had their arms around each other and looked wildly happy: in the first picture they were smiling, the next laughing, and the third kissing, sweetly, their lips barely touching. Like any couple you'd see on vacation that would ask you to take a picture, please, of the two of us.

Which was all fine and dandy, except whom the hell are they? And what was this supposed to mean anyway? I stood up, looking outside for the UPS truck, but it was already gone. Was I supposed to know these people, or something? I glanced back at the pictures, but the couple just grinned back at me, caught in their tropical moment, offering no explanation.

"Draco, honey, get me some cold water, would you?" Lola yelled from the other room, and I could tell by her voice, cheerful but loud, she meant to do it now, stat. "And some of that Neosporin from the cabinet beneath the cash drawer?"

"Sure thing!" I yelled back just as cheerfully, shoving the pictures into the envelope.

I yanked the Neosporin out of the cabinet, adding some gauze and a few bandages, which from previous experiences, I thought we might need. Hair emergencies happened all the time, and the truth was, you just knew to be prepared.

Three hours later, when the drama had finally subsided and Lola's customer had left with a bandaged scalp, a hefty gift certificate, and a written promise of eyebrow waxing for life, I finally got to lock the cash drawer, get my envelope, and walk outside.

It finally felt like summer. It felt heavy heat, totally humid, and everything just smelled kind smoky and thick, as if close to boiling. Lola kept the salon ice cold, so walking outside was like leaving an artic freeze. I always got goose bumps as I walked to my car.

I got in, cranked the engine, and turned the AC on full blast to get it going. Then I picked up my cell phone and checked my messages; One from Blaise, asking what we were doing tonight, one from pansy saying she was fine, just fine, but still sounding sniffly, which she knew I was getting sick of by now. And lastly my brother, Chris, reminding me that Jennifer Anne was cooking us dinner tonight, six sharp, don't be late.

I deleted this last message with an angry jab of my finger. I was never late, he knew it, and he said it just to bother me. Further evidence of brainwashing by Jennifer Anne, who, unlike my brother, didn't know a single thing about me. I mean, _I_, was the one who got him up each morning when he started for that Jiffy Lube job, otherwise he would have slept through all three of his alarms, which he had set in various positions around the room, all requiring him to get up out of bed to hit the snooze button. I made sure he wasn't late, didn't get fired, was out the door by 8:35 at the latest, in case he hit traffic down main street, which he always…

I was interrupted, suddenly, by a thwacking sound as someone hit my windshield. Not hard: more like a slap. I looked up, heart jumping, and saw yet another snapshot of the old vacationing couple. Same "WILL GOLF FOR FOOD" t-shirt, same crinkly smiles. Now starting down at me, pressed against the glass, held there by someone's hand.

I knew it; it was ridiculous I didn't even consider it earlier.

I hit the button for my window and it went down. Standing there, right by my side mirror, was Harry. He took his hand off the windshield and the picture slid down the glass, lodging itself under one of my wipers.

"Hi there," he said. He was wearing a white t-shirt under a uniform I recognised: polyester shirt, green with black piping. Right over the front pocket was neatly stitched FLASH CAMERA, the name of the one hour photo place directly across the street from the salon.

"You're stalking me," I told him.

"What?" he said. "You didn't like the pictures?"

"Will golf for food? How stupid is that?" I said, putting my car in reverse. "Is it supposed to mean something?"

"No musicians, no golfers," he said, ticking these off on his fingers. "What's left? Lion Tamers? Accountants?"

I just looked at him, and then put my foot on the gas. He had to jump out of the way to avoid my tire flattening his foot.

"Wait," he said, putting his hand on my open window, "In all seriousness. Can you give me a ride?" I must have looked skeptical, because he added quickly, "We have a band meeting in fifteen minutes. We instituted this new policy, so the repercussions for being late are brutal, seriously."

"I'm late too," I said, which was a lie, but I wasn't a freaking taxi service.

"Please." He squatted down, so we were eye to eye. Then he lifted up his other hand, exposing a grease-stained bag from Double Burger. "I'll share my fries with you."

"No thanks," I said, hitting the button to put up my window. "Besides, I have a no food policy in my car. Repercussions are brutal."

He smiled at this, stopping the window with his hand. "I'll behave," he said. "I promise." And then, he started around the front of the car, as if I had said yes, grabbing the picture off my windshield and tucking it into his back pocket. The next thing I knew he was sliding beside me, settling into the seat, the door swinging shut behind him.

What was it about this guy? Resistance was futile. Or maybe I was just too tired and hot to pursue another argument.

"One ride," I told him in my stern voice. "That's it. And if you even get a speck of food in this car you're out. I won't slow down to do it, either."

"Oh, please," he said, reaching for his seat belt, "you don't have to coddle me, really. Be blunt. Don't hold back."

I ignored this as I pulled out of the shopping centre and onto the road. We weren't half a block when I caught him sneaking a French fry. He thought he was being slick, cupping it in his hand and faking a yawn, but I was a pro at this. Pansy was always testing my limits.

"What did I say about food?" I said, hitting the brake for a red light.

"I'm hmphrgy," he mumbled, and then swallowed. "I'm hungry," he repeated.

"I don't care. No food in the car, period. I'm trying to keep it nice."

He turned around, glancing at the backseat, then at the dashboard and the floor mats. "Nice?" he said. "This thing is like a museum. It smells new."

"Exactly," I said as the light changed.

"Take this left here." He pointed, and I changed lanes, glancing behind me. "I bet you're a real control freak."

"Wrong."

"You are, I can tell." He ran a finger across the dash, and then glanced at it. "No dust," he reported. "You've cleaned this windshield from the inside, haven't

You?"

"Not lately."

"Hah!" he hooted. "I bet it would drive you crazy if something was out of place."

"Wrong," I told him.

"Let's see." He reached into the bag, carefully withdrawing a French fry. It was long and rubbery looking, bending as he held it between two fingers. "In the interest of science," he said, waving it at me, "a little experiment."

"No food in the car," I repeated, like a mantra. God, how far away was his house? We were back over near the hotel where we'd had the reception, so it had to be close.

"Left here," he said, and I hooked us onto the street, scaring a couple of squirrels into the trees. When I next glanced over at him, his hands were empty and the French fry, now straightened, was lying on the gearshift console. "Now, don't panic," he said, putting his arm on my arm. "Breathe. And just appreciate, for a minute, the freedom in this chaos."

I moved my arm out from under his hand. "Which house is yours?"

"It's not messy at all, see? It's beautiful. It's nature in all its simplicity…"

Then I saw it: the white van, parked crookedly in the front yard of a little yellow house about a hundred feet up. The porch light was on, even though it was broad daylight, and I could see the redheaded drummer, Ringo, coffee shop employee, sitting on the front steps with a dog beside him. He was reading a newspaper; the dog was just panting, its tongue out.

"… The natural state of things, which is, in fact, utter imperfection," he finished as we jerked into the driveway, spraying gravel. The French fry slid off the console, leaving a grease trail like a slug, and landed in my lap. "Whoops," he said grabbing it. "Now, see? That was a first, good step in conquering…"

I looked at him, then moved my hand, hitting the automatic lock: click, and the button on his door shot up.

"…Your problem," he finished. He opened the door and got out, taking his bag of grease with him. Then he bent down, poking his head back in quickly, so that we were almost face-to-face. "Thanks for the ride, really."

"Sure," I said. He didn't move for a second, which threw me off: just us, there together, eye to me. Then he blinked and pulled away, ducking out of the car and shutting the door. I watched as the dog on the porch suddenly got up and made its way down the steps, tail wagging wildly, when it saw Harry coming. Meanwhile, I was noticing that my car now stank of grease, another bonus. I put down the window, hoping the air freshener hanging from my rearview was up to the job.

"Finally," the drummer said, folding his newspaper. I put the car in reverse, and then made sure Harry's back was still turned before brushing my finger over the gearshift console, checking for grease. My dirty little secret.

"It's not six yet," Harry said, reaching down to pet the dog, who was now circling him, tail thwacking against the back of his legs. He had a white muzzle and moved kind of creakily, in that old dog way.

"Yeah, but I don't have my key," the drummer said, standing up.

"Neither do I," Harry told him. I started to back out then had to stop to let a bunch of cars pass. "What about the back door?"

"Locked. Plus you know Dean moved that bookcase in front of it last night."

Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, pulling them out. Nothing. "Well, I guess we just have to break a window."

"What?" the drummer said.

"Don't panic," Harry said in that offhand way I already recognised. "We'll pick a small one. Then you can wriggle through it."

"No way," the drummer said, crossing his arms over his chest as Harry started up the stairs, moving to check out the windows on the front side of the house. "Why do I always have to do that stupid shit, anyway?"

"Because you're a redhead," Harry told him, and the drummer made a face, "Plus, you have slim hips."

"What?"

By now I wasn't even waiting for a gap in traffic anymore. Instead I was watching as Harry found a rock around the side of the house, them came back and squatted down in front of a small window on the far end of the porch. He studied it, the rock, readying his technique while the dog sat down beside him, licking his ear. The drummer stood behind him, still looking miffed, his hands in his pocket.

Call it rampant control issues, but I couldn't stand to watch this. Which was why I found myself pulling back into the driveway, getting out of my car, and walking up the steps just as Harry was pulling his arm back, rock in hand, to break the window.

"One," he was saying, "two…"

"Wait," I called out, and he stopped, the rock tumbling from his hand and landing on the porch with a thunk. The dog jumped back, startled, with a yelp.

"I thought you had left," Harry said. "Couldn't do it, could you?"

"Do you have a credit card?" I asked him.

He and the drummer exchanged looks. Then Harry said, "Do I look like I have a credit card? And what, exactly, do you need purchased?"

"It's to unlock the door, idiot," I told him, reaching into my own pocket. But my wallet was in the glove compartment.

"I have one," the drummer said slowly, "but I'm only supposed to use it for emergencies."

We looked at him, and then Harry reached up and smacked him on the back of the head, three stooges style. "Ron Weasley, you're a moron. Just give it to him."

Ron Weasley, his real name, although to me he was still somehow Ringo, handed over a Visa. I opened the screen door, then took the card and slid it between the lock and the doorjamb, wiggling it around. I could feel them behind me, watching.

Every door is different, and the weight of the lock and the thickness of the card are all factors. This skill, like the perfect toss of an Extra Large Diet Zip, was acquired over time, with lots of practice. Never to break and enter, always just to get into my own house, or Greg's, when keys were lost. My brother, who had used it for evil at times, had taught me this when I was fourteen.

Little pulls to the left, then the right, and I felt the lock give. Bingo. We were in. I handed Ron Weasley back his card.

"Impressive," he said, smiling at me in that way guys do when you surprise them. "What's your name again?"

"Draco," I told him.

"He's with me," Harry explained, and I just sighed at this and walked off the porch, the dog now trailing along behind me. I bent down and petted him, scratching his ears. He had cloudy white eyes, and horrible breath, but I'd always had a soft spot for dogs. My mother, of course, was a cat person. The only pets I'd ever had were a long line of big, fluffy Himalayans, with various health problems and nasty temperaments who loved my mother and left hair everywhere.

"That's monkey," Harry called. "Him and me, we're a package deal."

"Too bad for Monkey," I replied, and stood up, walking to my car.

"You're a bad ass, Mr. Draco," he said. "But you're intrigued now. You'll be back."

"Don't count on it."

He didn't answer this, instead just stood there, leaning against a porch post as I pulled out of the driveway. Monkey was sitting next to him, and together they watched me drive away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Not my idea, and not my characters.**

**Snaps for my Beta xSoThisIsLovex**

**Chapter Six**

Chris opened the door to Jennifer Anne's apartment. He was wearing a tie.

"Later," he said flatly.

I glanced at my watch. It was 6:03, which, according to Blaise, Pansy and everyone else who always made _me_ wait, meant I was well within the bounds of the official within five minutes doesn't count as late rule. But something told me maybe I shouldn't point this out just now.

"He's here!" Chris called out over his shoulder, and then shot me the stink eye as I walked in, shutting the door behind me.

"I'll be right out," Jennifer Anne replied, her voice light. "Offer her something to drink, would you, Christopher?"

"This way." Chris started into the living room. As we walked, our shoes made swishy noises on the carpet. It was the first time I'd been to Jennifer Anne's, but I wasn't surprised by the décor. The sofa and the love seat were both a little threadbare and matched the border of the wallpaper. Her diploma from the community college hung on the wall in a thick gold frame. And the coffee table was piled with thick, pretty books about Province, Paris, and Venice, places I knew she'd never been, arranged with great care to how they looked as though they were stacked casually.

I sat down on the couch, and Chris brought me a ginger ale, which he knew I hated but thought I deserved. Then we sat down, him on the couch, and me on the love seat. Across from us, over the fake fireplace, a clock was ticking.

"I didn't realise this was a form occasion," I said, nodding at his tie.

"Obviously," he replied.

I glanced down at myself: I had on jeans and a white t-shirt. I looked fine, and he knew it. There was a clang from the kitchen, which sounded like an oven closing, and then the door swung open and Jennifer Anne emerged, smoothing her skirt with her hands.

"Draco," she said, coming over and bending down to kiss my cheek. This was new. It was all I could do not to pull back, if only from surprise, but I stayed put, not wanting another dirty look from my brother. Jennifer Anne settled down beside him on the couch, crossing her legs. "I'm so glad you could us. Brie?"

"Excuse me?"

"Brie," she repeated, lifting a small glass tray from the end table and extending it toward me. "It's a soft cheese, from France."

"Oh, right," I said. I just hadn't heard her, but now she looked very please with herself, as if she actually thought she'd brought some foreign culture into my life. "Thank you."

We were not given the opportunity to see if the conversation would progress naturally. Jennifer Anne clearly had a list of talking points she had culled from the newspaper or CNN she believed would allow us to converse on a level she deemed acceptable. This had to be a business tactic she'd picked up from one of her self-improvement books, none of which, I noticed, were shelved in the living room on public display.

"So," she said, after we'd all had a cracker or two, "what do you think about what's happening with the elections in Europe, Draco?"

I was taking a sip of my ginger ale, and glad of it. But finally I had to reply. I said, "I haven't been following the news lately, actually."

"Oh, it's fascinating," she told me. "Christopher and I were just discussing how the outcome could affect our global economy weren't we, honey?"

My brother swallowed the cracker he'd been eating, cleared his through, and said, "Yes."

And so it went. In the next fifteen minutes, we had equally fascinating discussions about genetic engineering, global warming, the possibility of books being completely obsolete in a few years because of computers, and the arrival at the local zoo of a new family of exotic, nearly extinct Australian birds. By the time we finally sat down for dinner, I was exhausted.

"Great chicken, sweetheart," my brother said as we all dug into our plates. Jennifer Anne had prepared some complicated looking recipe involving chicken breasts stuffed with sweet potatoes topped with a vegetable glaze. They looked perfect, but it was the kind of dish where you just knew someone had to have been pawing at your food a long while to get it just right, their fingers all in what you were having to stick in your mouth.

"Thank you," Jennifer replied, reaching over to pat his hand. "More rice?"

"Please." Chris smiled at her as she dished food on to his plate, and I realised, not for the first time, that I hardly recognised my brother anymore. He was sitting there was if this was the life he was used to, as if all he'd ever known was wearing a tie to dinner and having someone fix him exotic meals on what clearly were the good plates. But I knew differently. We'd shared the same childhood, were raised by the same woman, whose idea of a home cooked meal involved Kraft dinner, Pillsbury biscuits, and a peak and carrot combo from a can.

"So your brother and Severus get back Friday, correct?" Jennifer Anne asked me.

"Yep," I said, nodding. And maybe it was those meticulously made chicken rolls, or the fakeness of the entire evening thus far, but something suddenly kicked up my evil side. I turned to Chris and said, "So we haven't done it yet, you know?"

He blinked at me, his mouth full of rice. Then he swallowed and said, "What?"

"The wager." I waited from him to catch up, but either he didn't or was pretending not to.

"What wager?" Jennifer Anne asked, gamely allowing this divergence from her scripted dinner conversation.

"It's nothing," Chris mumbled. He was trying to kick me under the table, but hit a leg instead, rattling Jennifer Anne's butter dish.

"Years ago," I said to Jennifer Anne, as he took another swipe, barely nicking the sole of my shoe, "when my mother married for the second time, Chris and I started a tradition of laying bets on how long it would last."

"This bread is just great," Chris said quickly to Jennifer Anne. "Really."

"Chris was ten, and I must have been six or so," I continued. "This was when she married Harold, the professor? The day they left for the honeymoon, we each sat down with a pad of paper and calculated how long we thought they'd stay together. And then, we folded up our guesses and sealed them in an envelope, which I kept in my closet until the day my mother sat us down to tell us Harold was moving out."

"Draco," Chris said in a low voice, "this isn't funny."

"He's just mad," I told her, because he's never won yet. I always do. Because it's like blackjack: you can't go over. Whoever comes closest to the actual day wins. And we've really had to be specific about the rules over the years. Like it's the day she tells us it's over, not the official separation day. We had to establish that because when she and Martin split Chris tried to cheat."

Now, Chris was just glaring at me. Sore loser.

"Well, I think," Jennifer Anne, said, her voice high that is just horrible. Just _horrible._" She put her fork down carefully and pressed her napkin to her kips, closing her eyes. "What an awful way to look at marriage."

"We were just kids," Chris said quickly, putting an arm around her.

"I'm just saying," I said, shrugging, "it's like a family tradition."

Jennifer Anne pushed out her chair and picked up the chicken dish. "I just think that your mother deserves better," she snapped, "than for you to have so little faith in her. And then she walked into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind her.

Chris was across the table at me so quickly I didn't even have time to put down my fork: he almost pierced his own eyeball. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed at me. "What the _fuck_ is wrong you, Draco?"

"Gosh, Christopher," I said. "Such language. You better not let her hear you, she'll make you stay after school and write a report on those Australian blue footed boobies."

He sat back down in his chair, getting out of my face at least. "Look," he said, spitting out the words, "I can't help it if you're a bitter, angry asshole. But I love Jennifer Anne and I won't let you play your little games with her. Do you hear me?"

I just looked at him.

"Do you?" he snapped. "Because Damnit. Draco, you make it really hard to love you sometimes. You know that? You really do." And he pushed out his chair, threw his napkin down, and pushed through the door into the kitchen.

I sat there. I honestly felt like I'd been slapped: my face even felt red and hot. I'd just been messing around with him, and God, he'd just freaked. All these years Chris was the only one who'd even shared my sick, cynical view on love. We'd always told each other how we'd never get married, no way, shoot me if I do. But now, he'd turned his back on everything. What a chump.

I could hear them in the kitchen, her voice quiet and tremulous, his soothing. On my plate my food was cold, just like my hard, hard heart. You would have thought I'd feel brittle too, being such a bitter angry asshole. But I didn't. I felt nothing; really, just the sense that now the circle I'd always kept small was little smaller. Maybe Chris could be saved that easily. But not me. Never me.

After much whispered discussion in the kitchen, an uneasy peace was negotiated. I apologised to Jennifer Anne, trying to make it sound genuine, and suffered through more talking points over chocolate soufflé before finally being allowed to leave. Chris still wasn't really speaking to me, and didn't even try to make it sound like he wasn't slamming the door at my back when I left. I shouldn't have even been surprised, actually, that he'd caved so easily to love. That was why he'd lost our marriage bet every time: his guess was always over, way over, the last time by a full six months.

I got in my car and drove. Going home seemed depressing, with me just there, so I cut across town, into Pansy's neighbourhood. I slowed down in front of her house, turning off my lights and idling by the mailbox. Through the front window I could see into the dining room, where she and her parents were eating dinner. I thought about going up and ringing the bell, Pansy's mom was always quick to pull and another plate up to the table, but I wasn't in the mood for parental talk about college, or the future. In fact, I felt like I was primed for a little backsliding. So I went to Blaise's.

He answered the door holding a wooden spoon, his brow furrowed. "My mum's due home in forty five minutes," he informed me, holding the door open so I could come in. "You can stay thirty, okay?"

I nodded. Blaise's mum, Natasha, had a strict policy of no uninvited guests, which meant that as long as I'd known Blaise there'd always been a set time limit of how long we could hang out at his house. His mum just didn't seem to like people that much. I figured that was either a really bad reason to choose a career as a flight attendant or a natural reaction to having become one. Either way, we hardly ever saw her.

"How was dinner?" he asked me over his shoulder as I followed him into the kitchen, where I could hear something sizzling on the stove.

"Uneventful," I told him. I wasn't lying as much as I didn't feel like getting into it. "Can I score a couple of minibottles from you?"

He turned around from the stove, where he was stirring something in the pan. It smelled like seafood. "Is that why you came over?"

"Partially." That was the thing about Blaise: I could always shoot it straight with him. In fact, he preferred it that way. Like me, he wasn't into bullshitting around.

He rolled his eyes. "Help yourself."

I pulled a stool over and stepped up, opening the cabinet. Ah, the mother lode. Tiny bottles his mum had filched from the drink cart lined the shelf, arranged neatly by height and category: clear liquors on the left, dessert brandies on the right. I grabbed two Bacardis from the back, readjusted the rows, and then glanced at Blaise to make sure it looked okay. He nodded, then handed me a glass of coke, into which I dumped the contents of one bottle, shaking it around with some ice cubes. Then I took a sip. It was strong, and burned going down, and I felt this weird twinge, like I knew this wasn't the way to react to what had happened at Jennifer Anne's. It passed, though. That was the bad thing. It always passed.

"Want a sip?" I asked Blaise, holding out my glass. "It's good."

He shook his head. "Yeah," he said, adjusting the flame under the pan, "that's just what I need. She comes home to my first tuition bill and I smell like rum."

"Where's she been this time?"

"Zurich, I think." He leaned closer to the pan, sniffing it. "With a layover in London or Milan."

I took another sip of my drink. "So," I said, after a few seconds of quiet, "I'm an angry bitter asshole. Right?"

"Right," he said, without turning around.

I nodded. Point proved. I supposed. I drew in the dampness left by my glass on the black countertop, stretching out the edges.

"And you bring this up," Blaise said, turning around and leaning against the stove, "because…"

"Because," I told him, "Chris suddenly believes in love and I don't and therefore, I am a terrible person."

He considered this. "Not altogether terrible," he said. "You have some good points."

I waited, raising my eyebrows.

"Such as," he said, "You have really nice clothes."

"Fuck you," I told him, and he laughed, putting his hand over his mouth, so I laughed too. Really, I don't know what I'd expected. I would have said the same thing to him.

He wouldn't let me drive when I left. He moved my car around the corner, if it was parked out front his mum would be pissed, then drove me to Bendo, where I had to swear I would only have one more beer and then call Greg for a ride home. I promised. Then I went inside, had two beers, and decided not to bug Greg just yet. Instead I set myself up at the bar, with a decent view of the room, and decided to stew for a while.

I don't know how long it was before I saw him. One minute I was arguing with the bartender, a tall, gangly guy named Nathan, about classic rock guitarists, and the next I turned my head and caught glimpse of him in the mirror behind the bar. His hair was flat, his face a little sweaty. He looked drunk, but I would have known him anyway. It was everybody else who always liked to think he was gone for good.

I wiped off my face, ran my fingers through my hair, trying to give it some life. He stared back at me as I did this, knowing as well as I that these were just smoke mirrors, little tricks. Behind him and me the crowd was thickening, and I could feel people pressing up against me, leaning forward for drinks. And the sick thing? In a way, I was almost happy to see him. The worst part of me, out in the flesh. Blinking back at me in the din light, daring me to call him a name other than my own.

Truth be told, I used to be worse. Much worse.

I hardly ever drank much anymore. Or smoked pot. Or went off with guys I didn't know that well into dark corners, or dark cars, or rooms. Weird how it never worked in the daylight, when you could actually see the topography of someone's face, the lines and bumps, the scars. In the dark everyone felt the same: the edges blurred. When I think of myself then, what I was like two years ago, I feel like a wound in a bad place, prone to be bumped on corners or edges. Never able to heal.

It wasn't the drinking or the smoking that was really the problem. It was the other thing, the one harder to admit out loud. Nice girls didn't do what I did. Nice girls waited. But even before it happened, I'd never counted myself as a nice girl.

It was sophomore year, and Pansy's next-door neighbour Albert, a senior, was having a party. Pansy's parents were out of town, and we were all sleeping over, sneaking into their liquor cabinet and mixing anything we found together, then chasing it with Diet coke: rum, vodka, peppermint schnapps. To this day I couldn't' stomach cherry brandy, not even in the torts my mother loved from Milton's Market. The smell of it alone made me gag.

We never would have been invited to Albert's, being sophomores, and weren't bold enough to even consider crashing. But we did go out on Pansy's back porch with our spiked Diet Cokes and sneaked cigarettes we'd stolen from Blaise's grandmother, who smoked menthols. [Which also, to this day, made me gag. Some guy, who was already drunk and slurring, waved us over. After a bit of whispered conferring, which consisted of Pansy saying we couldn't and me and Blaise overruling her, we went.

This was the first night I ever got really drunk. It was a bad start with the cherry brandy, and an hour later I found myself making my way across Albert's living room, clutching an easy chain for support. Everything was spinning, and I could see Pansy and Blaise and Gregory sitting on a couch in the living room, where some girl was teaching them how to play quarters. The music was really loud, and someone had broken a vase in the foyer. It was blue, and the pieces were still scattered everywhere, strewn across the lime carpet. I remember thinking, in my blurry state that it looked like sea glass.

It was one of Albert's friends, a really popular senior guy, who I bumped into on the stairs. He'd been flirting with me all night, pulling me into his lap while we played asshole, and I liked it, felt vindicated, like it proved I wasn't just some stupid sophomore. When he said we should hang out and talk, alone, I knew where we were going and why. Even then, I wasn't new to this.

We went into Albert's bedroom and started kissing, there in the dark, and he fumbled for a light switch. Once he found it I could make out a Pink Floyd poster, stack of CDs, Elle McPherson on the wall with December beneath her. He was easing me back, toward the bed, and then we were lying down, all so quick.

I'd always prided myself on having the upper hand. I had my patented moves, the push offs and the casual squirm, easily utilized to slow things down. But this time, they weren't working. Every time I moved one of his hands another seemed to be on me, and it seemed like all my strength had seeped down to my toes. It didn't help that I was so drunk that my balance was off, my equilibrium shot. And it felt so good, for a while.

God. The rest comes in bursts when I do reach that far back, always these crazy sharp details: how fast it was all happening, the way I kept coming in and out of it, one second vivid, the next lost. He was on me and everything was spinning and all I could feel was this weight, heavy, pushing me backward until I feel like Alice, being sucked into the rabbit hole. It was not how I wanted my first time to be.

When it was over, I told him I felt sick and ran for the bathroom, locking the door with my hands shaking, unable at first to perform even the easiest of operations. Then I gripped the sink, gasping hard into it, my own breath coming back at me, amplified, rattling my ears. When I lifted my head up and looked in the mirror, it was his face I saw then. Drunk. Pale. Easy. And scared, unsteady, still gasping as he looked back at me, wondering what he had done.

"Nope." The bartender shook his head, plunking a cup of coffee in front of me. "She's cut off."

I wiped my face with my hand and looked at the guy beside me, shrugging. "I'm fine," I said, or slurred. Maybe. "I only had a couple."

"I know. They don't know anything." We'd been talking for about an hour now, and this was what I knew: his name was Sherman, he was a junior at some college I'd never heard of in Minnesota, and in the last ten minutes he'd progressively slide his leg closer and closer to mine while trying to pass it off as just the crowd jostling him. Now he shook a cigarette out of the pack in his hand, and then offered it to me. I shook my head and he lit it up, sucking down smoke and then blowing it straight up in the air. "So," he said, "a guy like you must have a boyfriend."

"Nope," I said, poking at my coffee with the spoon.

"I don't believe you," he said, picking up his drink. "Are you lying to me?"

I sighed. This entire scenario was like the default talk-to-a-guy-at-a-bar-script, and I was only playing along because I wasn't entirely sure I could get off my bar stool without stumbling. At least Gregory was coming. I'd called him. Hadn't I? 

"It's the truth," I told him. "I'm really just such an asshole."

He looked surprised at this, but not necessarily in a bad way. In fact, he looked kind of intrigued, as if I'd just admitted I wore leather boxers or was just double-jointed. "Now who told you that?"

"Everyone," I said.

"I've got something that'll cheer you up."

"I bet you do."

"No, really." He raised his eyebrows at me, and then pantomimed holding a joint between two fingers. "Out in the car. Come with me and I'll show you."

I shook my head. As if I was still that stupid. "Nope. I'm waiting for a ride."

He leaned closer to me: he smelled like aftershave, something strong. "I'll make sure you get home. Come on." And then he put his hand no my arm, curling his fingers around my elbow.

"Let go." I said, trying to tug my arm back.

"Don't be like that," he said, almost affectionately.

"I'm serious," I told him, jerking my elbow. He held on. "Let go."

"Oh come on, Drake," he said, finishing his drink. He couldn't even get my stupid name right. "I don't bite."

Then he started to tug me off my stool, which normally I would have made more difficult, but again, my balance wasn't exactly right on just then. Before I knew it I was on my feet, then getting yanked through the crowd.

"I said let go, you fucking asshole!" I pulled my arm loose, hard, and it flew up, smacking him in the face and sending him stumbling, just slightly backward. Now people were looking at us, in that mildly interested at least until the music started again kind of way. How had I let this happen? One nasty remark from Chris and I'm bar trash, fighting in public with some guy named Sherman? I could feel the shame rising up in me, flushing my face. Everyone was looking at me.

"Okay, okay, what's going on here?" That was Adrian, the bouncer, too late as usual for the real commotion but always up for a chance to throw his little bit of power around.

"We're just talking at the bar and we go to go outside and he freaks," Sherman said, pulling at his collar. "Crazy asshole. He hit me."

I was standing there, rubbing my arm, hating myself. I knew if I turned around I'd see that guy again, so weak and screwed up. He'd go to the parking lot, no problem. After that night at the party, he'd gotten a reputation for it. I hated him for that. So much I could feel a lump rising in my throat, which I pressed down because I felt better than that, much better. I wasn't Pansy: I didn't trot my pain out to show around. I kept it better hidden than anyone. I did.

"God, this is welling," Sherman whined, rubbing his eye. What a wuss. If I'd hit him on purpose, well, then that would have been different. But it was an accident; I didn't even really have my arm in it.

"You want me to call the police?" Adrian asked.

I was suddenly so hot, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back with sweat. The room tilted, just a bit, and I closed my eyes.

"Oh, man," I heard someone say, and suddenly there was a hand enclosing mine, squeezing lightly. "There you are! I'm only fifteen minutes late, honey, no need to cause a commotion."

I opened my eyes to see Harry standing beside me. Holding my hand. I would have yanked it away, but honestly I thought better of it, after what just happened.

"This doesn't concern you," Adrian said to Harry.

"It's my fault, though," Harry replied in that quick, cheery way of his, as if we were all friends who met coincidentally on a street corner. "It is. See, I was late. And that makes my sweetums so foul tempered."

"God," I said under my breath.

"Sweetums?" Sherman repeated.

"He clocked him," Adrian told Harry. "Might have to call the cops."

Harry looked at me, then at Sherman. "He hit you?"

Now Sherman didn't seem so sure, instead pulling at his collar and glancing around. "Well, not exactly."

"Honey!" Harry looked at me. "Did you really? But he's just a little thing."

"Watch it," I said under my breath.

"You want to get arrested?" he said back, just as low. Then, back in cheery mode, he added, "I mean, I've seen him get mad before, but hit somebody? My Draco? He's not even ninety pounds soaking wet."

"Either I call the cops or I don't," Adrian said. "But I got to get back to the door."

"Forget it," Sherman told him. "I'm out of here." And then he slunk off, but not before I noticed that yes, his eye was swelling. Wimp.

"You." Adrian pointed at me. "Go home. Now."

"Done," Harry said. "And thank you so much for your cordial, professional handling of this situation."

We left Adrian there, mulling over whether he'd been insulted. As soon as we were outside, I yanked my hand loose from Harry's and started down the stairs, toward the pay phone.

"What, no thank you?" he asked me.

"I can take care of myself," I told him. "I'm not some weak woman who needs to be saved."

"Obviously," he said. "You just almost got arrested for assault."

I kept walking.

"And," he continued, darting ahead of me and walking backward so I had no choice but to look at him, "I saved your arse. So you, Draco, should be a little more grateful. Are you drunk?"

"No," I snapped, although I may or may not have just tripped over something. "I'm fine. I just want to call for a ride and go home, okay? I had a really shitty night."

He dropped back beside me, sticking his hands in his pocket. "Really."

"Yes."

We were at the phone now. I reached into my pockets: no change. And suddenly it just seemed to hit me at all once, the argument with Chris, the fight in the bar, my own pity party, and right on the tails of that, all the thinks I'd confused in the last few hours. My head hurt, I was deadly thirsty, and now I was stuck. I put my hand over my eyes and took a few good, deep breaths to steady myself.

Don't cry, for God's sakes, I told myself. This isn't you. Not anymore. Breathe.

But it wasn't working. Nothing was working tonight.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Tell me what's wrong."

"No." I sniffled, and hated the way it sounded. Weak. "Go away."

"Draco," he replied. "Tell me."

I shook my head. How did I know this would be any different? The story could have been the same, easily: me drunk, in a deserted place. Someone was there, reaching out for me. It happened before. Who could blame me for my cold, hard heart?

And that did it. I was crying, so angry with myself, but I couldn't stop. The only time I ever allowed myself to be this weak was at home, in my closet, staring up at those stars with my father's voice filling my ears. And I wished so much that he was here, even though I knew it was stupid, that he didn't even know me to save me. He'd said it himself, in the song: he'd let me down. But still.

"Draco," Harry said quietly. He wasn't touching me, but his voice was very close, and very soft. "It's okay. Don't cry."

Later. It would take me a minute to remember how exactly it happened. If I turned around and moved forward first, or he did, I just knew we didn't meet halfway. It was just a short distance really, not worth squabbling over. And maybe it didn't' matter so much whether he took the step or I did. All I knew was that he was there.


End file.
